


Call of Duty

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Pornstars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-15 03:54:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2214825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever happened to the most famous pornstar of Cybertron?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1: As Seen On TV

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NK (NKfloofiepoof)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NKfloofiepoof/gifts).



**Title:** Call of Duty  
 **Warning:** Porn and pornstars. Power imbalance? Fantasies and libidos spinning out of control. Read at your own risk.  
 **Show Rating:** NC-17  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Soundwave, Megatron, Onslaught, Jazz, Ratchet, Hound, Constructicons  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** NK won the fic/art commission auction, and she gave us a kinkmeme prompt (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/10462.html?thread=9152990#t9152990). Basically, whatever happened to the pornstars of Cybertron?

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part One: As Seen On TV**   
**[* * * * *]**

After millions of years of war, Cybertron was doing the best it could. There were highways, businesses, billboards, neon signs, and government offices again. Overhead, the piercing beams of light from flight directories kept even air traffic in line. Iacon was still an echoing ruin of burnt-out levels and collapsed buildings, but Polyhex had rebuilt from Darkmount outward. 

The Autobots weren’t been thrilled by the location, but, well. Nobody asked their opinion.

It wasn’t the Golden Age, that was for sure. The world as they’d once known it was gone, but it was better than it’d been a vorn ago. The Autobots weren’t kept in rudimentary shelters, penned in by walls and guards under the oppressive shadow of the smelterworks. The P.O.W. camps were closed down. So were the open pits. The remaining prisoners were classified as war criminals for one reason or another, but they worked the smelter instead of died in it. That was an improvement of sorts.

Things were getting better. The Autobots took what they could get, these days. To be perfectly honest, they’d accept a lot of slag if it meant the war wouldn’t continue. Not even the losers wanted the war to restart. Cybertron as a whole had had enough of fighting.

There was hope for a reunited world. They weren’t prisoners, not quite. They were registered, but tracking devices weren’t stapled to their wrists or anything like that. They reported in to work supervisors at regular intervals, or they were tracked down and fined for tardiness. If they attempted to avoid the trackers or tried to leave Polyhex, they were punished. That seemed harsh, but they _had_ just lost a civil war that’d stretched out for millions of years and nearly destroyed their race.

Besides, there were travel permits in the works. That would open up other cities to them. Technically they could be applied for at any time, but nobody knew an Autobot who’d actually gotten an application passed through. The fact that they existed at all was an encouragement, however. The promise was there that someday the Autobots might leave Polyhex. Maybe. If their work permits were checked off by their supervisor, their residence sector came up clean for civil unrest the prior meta-cycle, and their application passed inspection. 

So far, the first two requirements had been impossible to meet, but wasn’t unreasonable for the Decepticon-borne government to good behavior before signing off on a travel pass. It didn’t make sense to allow uncooperative ex-enemy soldiers to walk away. That would restart the resistance in no time at all.

It was disappointing, but the Autobots could be patient. They’d outwaited the P.O.W. camps and the final surrender of Optimus Prime. They could wait through the rebuilding of Polyhex. 

Work permits were easier to get than travel permits. That was a relief. The work permits had been a long-anticipated escape from Darkmount's not-quite-prison camps. The Autobots had been fighting for so long that sitting around doing nothing drove them up the walls. Everybody and their unitmates applied for a work permit, doing construction if nothing else was hiring.

For a while, construction work was it. One of Megatron’s concessions during Optimus Prime’s carefully negotiated surrender had been transparency in dealing with the Autobots who surrendered (those who continued fighting, of course, had been shown no such consideration). As part of that deal, Shockwave was almost eerily up-front about his plan: he shunted the Autobots into tidy, closely-monitored neighborhoods in the city. There was cheering in the dormitories -- converted from prison barracks, formerly the P.O.W. shelters -- when the maps of the planned city districts were projected. At last, they knew what the plan was! The plan was to get out of the dormitories to build proper housing, constructing residential areas the Autobots gladly moved into. 

It’d been a relief knowing what was going on. The Decepticons still wanted their business and their businesses; Shockwave just didn’t want Autobots and Decepticons _living_ together. 

Which was fine, because they didn’t want to live with Decepticons, either. Okay, good. Mutual agreement.

Then the Business Bureau opened, ready to start blocking out the business districts, and Autobots descended on it like a pack of starving Empties spotting a scrap of energon. The clerks peered through the front door and immediately called for back-up the day it opened to accepting business permit applications. A numbered queue stretched out the building and all the way around the bureaucratic compound the whole of the first week. Everyone had a business application in hand, because everyone had been waiting for the war to end to resume a normal life. Normal life, for a lot of mechs, involved commerce.

The Autobots had been tweaking their resumes and work permit applications for weeks. They’d been combing the wider city looking for Decepticons willing to hire Autobot employees, Neutrals willing to act as trading fronts, and pulling together individual and group business permits of their own. When the Business Bureau’s doors opened, everybody and their business partner flooded through. It was chaos, but it was highly organized, eagerly anticipated chaos.

Soundwave had gone to be the official High Command presence when news of the crowd reached him, but he ended up setting up a makeshift desk and pitching in to help midway through the first day. 

"#865!" the queue-board bawled out over the crowd, and Soundwave absently raised his hand to indicate he was the open clerk. The back of his processor kept compiling the new application data being fed into it by the other ten Decepticons feverishly working around the room. He scribbled notes on the last business application. The pair of Autobots who'd turned it in had potential, and he’d matched it with a Neutral's work permit, writing down the number even as he filed the application into the Bureau’s database. 

A rough reset of a vocalizer interrupted his concentration. He knew that voice. Soundwave looked up, visor narrowed to a thin band.

"This is somewhat awkward," Prowl said under his breath.

He continued staring silently. Yes. Yes, it was. What was the Second-in-Command of the Autobots doing standing in line like a common footsoldier? 

As much as the Decepticons muttered and protested, as often as Starscream complained, Megatron hadn’t hesitated an instant to tap Optimus Prime as one of his civilian advisors. As Megatron had gruffly pointed out when informing the Prime of his new job, somebody needed to represent the Autobots or it’d be a slippery slope into slavery and outright war soon after. 

The Prime had accepted the position with grace. If only certain Decepticons would follow his example. 

Starscream’s indignant shriek of rage had blown out three windows and Laserbeak’s audios, but that’s what the Cassetticon got for eavesdropping on Megatron’s office. It wasn’t as though all of Darkmount couldn’t hear the yelling. When the two highest-ranking mechs in the Decepticons went at it, _everybody_ got an audio-full.

“Advisor,” Megatron had bellowed in Starscream’s face during one memorable argument. “Advisor, not enemy, not backstabbing traitorous glitch who doesn’t know how to budget to save his blasted wings!” Starscream had darted out of reach of an irate swipe at said wings, and Megatron had glared him down. “I need **someone** more trustworthy than you, someone used to dealing civilians in some other way than **shooting them**!”

“I never!” Starscream’s mouth had dropped in one of the best affronted expressions Soundwave had ever witnessed. The carrier mech couldn’t tell if it was because Megatron trusted the Autobot leader more than his own Air Commander, or because Megatron had just dismissed Starscream’s eons of experience as Emirate of Vos.

Either way, Optimus Prime kept the advisor post, and Starscream’s divisions were so far under budget Soundwave had come to grudgingly respect his ability to save money.

He still shot civilians. Soundwave didn’t respect that.

Prowl waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, the Autobot Second set his application down on the desk and helped himself to the chair meant for applicants. Fitting, since that’s what he seemed to be. Once he was sitting, he folded his hands in his lap and regarded the communication specialist with all the patience of someone who’d out-waited a never-ending queue. “We could waste our time with small talk neither of us cares for, or you could approve this and get me out of your way.”

“Efficient,” Soundwave said, neutral to cover his surprise, and he picked up the application. A cursory scan of the first lines almost cause him to drop it. “Unexpected choice of business.”

“Accounting is a peaceful occupation, one of particular use supporting the growth of a new business community. I am already a trusted figure among the Autobots, and I intend to make availability to first-time business owners a priority,” Prowl said in the same neutral tone Soundwave had used. “If you believe Decepticons would be interested, I am willing to extend the same offer to them. All of which is already clearly stated in my permit proposal.” He gave a small nod to the application, a hint to get on with processing it.

Patient, perhaps, but Prowl _had_ been standing in line for 13 hours.

Soundwave gave him a blank look. “Position left open under the Prime. Assumption made that you would be stepping forward to work as the Prime’s assistant. Shockwave: has been operating under this assumption since civilian advisor position created.” The civil government Shockwave was building from Darkmount out was based off of a military framework, since that was what Cybertron’s remaining population knew how to operate within. Soundwave’s understanding of the new structure was that the system relied on transplanting several officers from the remaining Autobot Command straight into new government positions, borrowing their authority to lend civilian offices legitimacy.

Shockwave’s plan had worked so far as transplanting the Decepticon officers. Their Autobot counterparts were going to throw a spanner in the works, it seemed. Now that Soundwave was looking up from his work long enough to scan the crowded room, he could spot five or more of Optimus Prime’s top officers patiently waiting in the queue. Some of them were watching his desk specifically, suspicion and slight anxiety visible on their faces. He could approve or turn down their applications, setting precedence on whether they were _allowed_ out of their past military ranks.

Honestly, he didn’t know what to do, what to think, or where to start. It hadn’t occurred to any of the Decepticon officers that the Autobot officers wanted out of the political arena. The obvious transition from military rank to power and office within the civilian government sphere surely meant the Autobots wanted to be involved. Right?

“I want nothing to do with your government,” Prowl said now, and a flash of stressed white crossed Soundwave’s visor. The Autobot kept his voice lowered and hands relaxed on his lap, but he met Soundwave’s gaze with the intensity of someone who’d given this a lot of thought. “I will cooperate, and I will comply. That does not mean I want to be complicit. I will not take an active role in organizing or enforcing your rules and regulations.” Now he looked away, dropping his optics to study the desk between them. “Money management is a good civilian career. I enjoy calculations when they are not of potential casualties.” He in-vented deeply and looked up again. “Optimus Prime is aware of my resignation and understands my reasoning. That is all the official approval I need to start a life outside of war. Barring, of course,” he nodded to the application, “your signature.” 

This was going to start another shouting match between Megatron and Optimus Prime, Soundwave could tell. Starscream had nothing on the bass rumble of the Prime at full volume, and hearing that booming voice raised still sent Decepticons cringing and diving for cover in reflexive fear for life and limb. Worse, the Prime was infernally rational. He could talk Megatron down from impassioned but unwise decisions, which was all well and good until Soundwave was stuck at Ground Zero. Making this call had been dumped squarely on his shoulders.

He reluctantly turned his attention to the application. It was impeccably filed out, as was to be expected from Prowl. 

An accounting business. From master strategist to number-cruncher. He could see the benefits, but he read the application through eight times before making his final decision. He was well aware he’d be the one explaining this to Megatron later and getting stuck between Prime and commander as a result.

He signed off on the application. 

The corners of Prowl’s mouth turned up in a smile that might have held relief if he was any less composed. He inclined his head respectfully and stood to leave.

Soundwave restrained himself from chucking a stylus at the back of his head in petty revenge as the next Autobot bounced over to sit down. He was afraid to see what the application in Jazz’s hands was for.

Life outside of the war was certainly interesting.

With time, the drama died down. Five years after the Business Bureau opened, the business districts were thriving zones attempting to engulf the spaceport, or what would be the spaceport once construction completed. The sole entertainment district had riots at least once a month, something even the most optimistic city official had planned for when it opened. City-licensed entertainment venues and entertainers meant controlled circumstances, not controlled customers. 

The situation hadn’t spun outside of acceptable parameters yet. Shockwave had Darkmount’s garrison on standby just in case. The city forced-labor construction gangs did a brisk turnover, mechs staying just long enough in chains for the hangover to fade and regrets to bloom. 

Polyhex expanded out and away from the base of Darkmount. The Autobots still tended to cluster into neighborhoods that catered to their own needs even after Shockwave lifted the residential divider lines, but those areas were safe enough. A Decepticon could walk through the streets without a gun, anyway, and that was safer than Polyhex had been before the war. Semi-hostile optics watched from the windows, but business was business. The Decepticons had shanix to spend. The Autobots were running businesses. These things had to meet in the middle eventually.

The more time passed without the war restarting, the more people started to have some faith that peace would last. Autobots kept turning in travel applications, hopeful despite denial. Autobot employees started getting promotions in Decepticon businesses. Decepticons applied to Autobot businesses. Some of them even got hired. Decepticon businesses contracted with Autobot businesses. Decepticons in general began forming partnerships with Autobots. 

Neutrals complained bitterly. They were losing money as go-betweens became less and less necessary. That was the kind of complaint that was really a reassurance in disguise.

Soundwave himself had Blurr’s Messenger Service on speed-dial for deliveries. He also bought Jazz’s latest album, as produced by Blaster’s recording studio. Autobot businesses were useful, he’d found. He intended to keep them under close supervision, but hopefully for business purposes instead of suspected insurgency. They did, after all, fall under his jurisdiction.

The Media & Entertainment government branch had ballooned explosively under his command. Reflector had free rein to recruit and hire as needed, and they were quite good at pitching their offers in just the right way to appeal to Soundwave’s targets. Soundwave marked and encouraged creative talent in the subtle, manipulative manner of a spymaster grooming informants: he found the mechs he needed, and when he found them, he made it advantageous that they work for him. He nurtured enterprising producers, actors, and writers today the way Scrapper had once protected the Decepticons’ precious medics. For the most part, they already wanted to join his division. All he had to do was make it a viable career again. 

Soundwave had a civilian network ready to go almost before the war ended. Working for M&E was good money and better stability in a post-war economy. Competitive wages, interesting work…sure the boss was a bit controlling, a little possessive, but he rewarded loyalty. Decepticons knew that meant they weren’t going anywhere once he hired them, and the Autobots learned soon enough that it translated to job security. 

The entertainment industry flourished as a result. New content became more common by the day, and Soundwave set the government broadcast standards purposefully low to encourage distributions through commercial channels instead of back alleys. Before the entertainment district opened, he filled the broadcast studios with live audiences -- with armed guards out of sight of the cameras -- and brought in amusement acts that anyone could try out for. Some of them, probably most of them, were stupid, painfully awkward, and even dangerous. It was an insanely popular move. He hired the best acts. He let them write their own material, pass it by him, and gradually build their own shows around it. 

 

There hadn’t been new entertainment shows since the first half of the war. There hadn’t been a news program since the last reporter dared whisper into a radio transmitter and was executed for speaking out against the faction-approved propaganda line. Soundwave carefully vetted Decepticon applicants as news anchors, real personalities reporting news from around the city, Cybertron, and even the Galactic Council. Everyone hated them on sight. People protested outside the M&E offices when he replaced the shorter mech. The new guy became a roving reporter, and the short mech was reinstated. Everyone happily went back to hating him. 

There was no doubt about M&E’s impact on the city: the pile of requests and complaints his assistants dealt with could choke a Morphobot. If that wasn’t enough proof, the first businesses to open contacted him for commercial space before he had to contact them. They knew what would get their businesses noticed, and it was Media & Entertainment. Billboards, show sponsorships, radio time, and best of all, the coveted, pricey vidscreen ads. Soundwave controlled it all, and he used it with utmost care. It was a great responsibility, and for reasons that hadn’t crossed his mind when initially selling advertisement space.

Mechs were _mesmerized_ by commercials. They were a lost art on Cybertron, where the factions had seized control of all broadcast mediums early on in the war. If he’d have allowed infomercials like Swindle wanted, the conmech would have walked away with enough shanix to buy the spaceport. He made sure to run at least one commercial for Prowl’s accountant services every broadcast cycle. 

Opening the entertainment district took some pressure off the broadcast cycle, but Soundwave was responsible for that area as well. It counted as Entertainment. He could track everything in the district from his office if he had to, but he left the clubs to his Cassettes. They were permanently assigned to monitoring it, leaving Reflector to the studios. Covert supervision on-site worked out better, especially for venues open to Autobots. They knew there was surveillance, but a discreet presence allowed for freer behavior. Concerts recorded by Laserbeak for later broadcasts showed happy crowds unaware they were being filmed at all, and Jazz had been blatantly bribing the little flightframe for premium backstage shots of his shows. 

Soundwave handled the filework on his end. Live performances required a performance permit and a venue to house the audience, and the venue required a business permit, packaging everything into a neat circuit that could be easily monitored. Impromptu assemblies on the street were grounds for arrest unless a government branch had put its stamp of approval on it. Concerts were encouraged; protests were cut off at the root. Frenzy and Rumble had called in the Darkmount garrison more than once to stop a drunken riot before anything really got rolling.

Although arrests were becoming infrequent these days. Soundwave monitored the legal venues closely and the smaller, hushed gatherings in the Autobot neighborhoods even more so, but it seemed everyone on Cybertron was as tired of war as Megatron had become. The Autobots mostly held meetings to discuss living conditions, plans for appeals to free the smelterwork prisoners, and inane things of no real consequences. They seemed to just want normal lives. Like the Decepticon soldiers-turned-civilians, all they need to be happy was a job, a place to live, and something to look forward to at the end of the workday, be that a drink, a concert, or a vacation.

Peace gave Soundwave time for forward-thinking projects he hoped would fit those simple needs. Digging up old classics in music and vidscreen broadcasts allowed him to expand his branch by hiring more people to help, making the M&E the most faction-cooperative government division. He kept media-control, propaganda, and spying tactfully separate from the broadcast planning and research portions of the branch, creating the polite fiction that M&E was transparent. Look, everything was out in the open. 

It wasn’t in any way and nobody was fooled, but it did allow for teams made of both factions to get along without sullenly glaring at each other because wartime media broadcasts were being edited to put the Decepticons in the best light. Soundwave sincerely wanted Autobot input in his division. Tracking down pre-war classics was in everyone’s best interests. There was real enthusiasm in setting up the broadcast schedule, most days, and he gave credit where credit was due.

Hence the reason he was the Decepticon Prowl approached when concerns rose over Shockwave’s new tax system. Hurray for educational programs that bored everyone out of their helms but taught mechs how to calculate what they owed the government. Megatron sat through Prowl’s program, called Shockwave in, and made him revise the tax system until a Decepticon grunt could actually understand it. Optimus Prime pulled Soundwave aside during that fiasco and thanked him personally for his contribution to the peace. 

Of course, Starscream used the distraction to go out and hire Prowl to balance his divisions’ budgets. Soundwave could murder the Seeker for thinking of that first. Prowl refused to take more than one government official as a client. 

In any case, Soundwave’s projects paid off everything he invested in them. Educational programs were, oddly enough, a hit. So was the news, which shocked no one more than the poor news anchors everyone loathed. Jazz already had a fanbase forming. The canny fragger bargained hard to get part of the commercial revenue generated by broadcasting his concerts. He agreed to interviews that boosted his popularity and therefore made him even more profitable to the entertainment district. A nice win-win, in Soundwave’s opinion.

However, it was the old shows that had businesses lining up to pay for commercial space and his assistants throwing their arms up in surrender. The centerpieces of each broadcast cycle were exactly what they’d been nine million years ago, and Soundwave had mechs beating down M&E’s door pleading for more, faster, now. Complete runs of a series were rare, sometimes leaving gaping holes in ongoing plots for months at a time before Soundwave could track down the missing episode. He was terribly amused by the death threats M&E received every time there was a cliffhanger. A dozen would-be hackers had already found themselves sentenced to a year in the smelterworks for attempting to access the next episode before it aired, and Shockwave promised downloaders would find themselves in the chaingangs.

With so many old shows being found and re-introduced to Cybertron, the natural result was curiosity over the fate of the actors. Where and who they were now if they were still alive, or how they died in the majority of cases. Soundwave’s personal pet project was assembling a modern database of old movies, shows, and media star profiles before the new ones created unorganized chaos. He found and updated old profiles, something that took time and effort but paid off as interest in his work grew. That portion of M&E infonet rated just under the broadcast schedule for most visitors.

Businesses _fought_ over advertising space during Hoist’s interviews. They played after each broadcast of old _General Practitioner_ episodes, and they had one of the highest ratings for any rerun program yet. His story was one of the most incredible twists of fate out there: he’d played doctor until he’d become one. He had been so well-known for his role in the show that he’d been forced into getting medical training during the war because everyone on the battlefield kept recognizing his face and calling for medical assistance. It was amazing what fame could do. 

The problem Soundwave kept running into was that Hoist was unusual. Finding out what had happened to people over the course of a war wasn’t easy. City populations had fled Cybertron or scattered, even vanishing into the lower levels to turn up here or there under different names at different times. Many of them actively tried to discard their pasts via misdirection or destroying their own records. There were a lot of dead ends.

The good news being that after Soundwave found as much as he could using the Decepticon records, he had access to the Autobot records. Sort of. Some of them, at least. More than he’d thought originally, once he’d persuaded Ratchet his project wasn’t a secret Decepticon ploy to kill off Autobots.

That took some time. “Patient confidentiality: only applies to current medical treatment. Past records open to inspection,” he said. 

“In this clinic, I hold all patient information as confidential. You’re imposing Decepticon medical standards on an Autobot clinic,” Ratchet countered. “That’s abuse of authority.”

The urge to shrug and point to his faction emblem was there, but Soundwave knew he had to play nice. Ratchet’s clinic was the only medical facility currently open outside of Darkmount’s hospital, and the Constructicons had issued extremely gory threats of dismemberment about it. The first Decepticon to get on the Autobot ex-Chief Medical Officer’s nerves was going to end up in their repairbay, and _not_ for repairs. 

The Constructicons apparently had very strong opinions about encouraging the growth of Cybertron’s healthcare system. They weren’t risking Ratchet closing the clinic out of sheer spite. The argument over taking an apprentice if not a teaching position for the sake of Cybertron’s continued medical education already made relations between Hook and Ratchet a minefield. Scrapper would quit _’Maintenance Tips And Tricks’_ if Soundwave made things worse, and there wasn’t another DIY show in the works to fill that slot. 

Soundwave silently sighed and reached for reason instead of commands. “I am not interested in releasing details to public perusal,” he said. “Dates and causes of death are of interest. Profiles are to include a brief history of entertainment career, not history of military service.”

Ratchet gave him a sharp look. “My medical records are not publically accessible for a reason. Some of those mechs you’re looking for might still be alive. If they haven’t come forward now, have you even thought about how they’ll feel about being exposed? Not everyone wants to resume the life they lived before the war.”

That gave him pause for a moment. No, he hadn’t thought about it. Of all the ex-stars he’d located since starting his project, not one hadn’t been flattered to be recognized. Initially alarmed in the case of some the Autobots -- Hoist hadn’t relaxed until Soundwave enlisted one of his assistants as a go-between to set up the interview schedule -- but ultimately charmed anyone remembered them. They were famous again. Who wouldn’t want that? Stars from cruddy vidshows?

“Celebrity privacy not a concern before the war,” he said slowly, turning this newfangled idea over in his head. Even lousy stars were stars. Surely they’d enjoy the leftover fame, or even hanging their star up to shine anew. Reflector was keeping very close tabs on his database, hiring show directors, camera operators, and actors off the list as fast as Soundwave found them. There just weren’t enough people left alive with real life experience in production. Media & Entertainment needed then to build an entertainment industry. Talented amateurs were a good start, but Reflector was going out of their heads searching for people who knew what they were doing.

“We’re not celebrities,” Ratchet insisted. “We were soldiers, and now we’re civilians. Can’t you just let mechs come forward if they want to?”

Soundwave gave him a skeptical look. Right, because trusting mechs not to claim they were a famous person would work out well. He could just picture Swindle selling fake histories to people. There was a reason Shockwave jailed without trial anyone who falsified I.D. The population census the former Tower Guardian was slogging through was a nightmare of former identities and destroyed evidence. Soundwave hid in his altmode under his desk whenever Shockwave came asking for help. Media & Entertainment wasn’t _touching_ that mess.

Ratchet glared at him for a moment more before his shoulders went down. “No, of course you can’t. You’re you. I don’t know what I expected you to say.” Dragging a hand down his face, he shook his head and gave up. “I swear to Vector Sigma, I’ll file so many complaints against you no medic will ever treat you or yours again if you out somebody and they get hurt.” Soundwave stiffened a fraction. “Yeah, you heard me. That’s a threat, and you’d better remember it.”

It was more funny than it was a real threat, but then again, the Constructicons certainly weren’t joking. Soundwave kept that in mind while he worked at Ratchet’s console. The former Autobot CMO had destroyed the Autobot medical datafile archive right before being captured, because caring for his patients during war meant that he would refuse upon pain of torture and death to allow exploitation of their medical information. He had, the crafty old rustbucket, hard-line downloaded and encrypted the files into his internal databanks to preserve the data up until the point of his own death. Not even Vortex could guarantee he could hack the medic without damage, and Soundwave knew any medic of a Prime would wipe his own harddrive before allowing enemies access. 

So the only medical logs for the Autobot forces remained locked in Ratchet’s head. Yet another reason the Constructicons would bulldoze anyone who upset him: he was their lone source of patient history for a third of the city population. 

Surrendered the Autobots might be, but not defeated. Ratchet wasn’t handing over that data.

He hooked himself into the console and let Soundwave poke at it under verbal agreement not to run any sketchy searches. He even provided some pointers on celebrities he’d worked on, all deceased. He liked the classic shows, and he wanted to see them remembered. 

Soundwave could understand that. Understand, and use it for his own purposes. They understood each other well, carrier and medic.

Soundwave was well aware Jazz had sauntered into the clinic at some point to perch on a repair table behind him like Ratchet’s guardian angel. Since the Decepticon wasn’t planning on digging any deeper than he had to -- he valued things like limbs and other Constructicon-removable parts of himself more than a quick download -- then Jazz’s presence was unnecessary. Precautionary, perhaps. Soundwave _might_ have been tempted to sneak further into the records if he didn’t have a shadow menacing his back.

As it was, he had enough work to do. Cross-checking names and records from the credits of every vidshow and film on the broadcast cycle took a while. He busied himself compiling actor profiles as soon as the information popped up.

Most names were tagged with death notifications. Some deaths he’d known about, but he noted down exact dates and times. Each faction’s news network had kept up with minor trivia long after taking total control of the actual news, and claimed kills of famous people had been a popular segment among the Decepticons. He added a handful of names Decepticon soldiers had bragged about, recalling more celebrities to research as he went down the list. Confirmed kills might not be the point of pride they’d once been, but it was useful data for his work.

He added a name to his search, suddenly curious. A lot of mechs had died in the war, but he’d never heard this name mentioned.

Huh. It was strange that he hadn’t, now that he thought about it. He hadn’t heard a thing since the last film, which was…produced and sold for viewing before the Senate went down in flames. Odd that production had stopped so early on. Porn videos were fairly cheap and fast to produce, and he’d have thought that the audience would only increase for an over-the-top military hero who got spike across Cybertron and all the known colonies. Enough mechs had certainly wanted to be just like him as the war started. There were soldiers who’d idolized him as being everything a grunt should be. 

Long before the war had begun, Sarge had been the hard-drinking, harder-riding action pornstar even the most dedicated valve mech would pressurize for. The war had made his _type_ common, but they were wanna-be knock-offs. They inspired disgust, not lust. 

Sarge put a hook into a mech’s interfacing equipment and reeled him in to be used. Soundwave hadn’t even known he’d enjoy giving it to someone until the first time he downloaded a porn vid featuring Sarge.

_’Piledriver.’_ He hadn’t thought about that porn vid in a million years. It’d had the worst plot he’d ever seen, something about an evil scientist unleashing a diabolical device on a defenseless city. The device was just an excuse to put a semi-sentient AI into a series of progressively larger and more lurid fake spikes attached to a hydraulic system. Sarge had to wrestle the device down and teach it a lesson using only the power of his valve, since his ankles and wrists had been bound by the evil scientist prior to (conveniently) being left alone to die with the city. It’d been a terrible plot to set up a mech versus frag-machine contest. It’d been cheap, silly, and not worth the memory space it took up.

He’d watched the file to digital decay. His under-used spike had _hurt_ , he’d overloaded so many times. He’d humped his hand, the vidscreen stand, even the end of the bed while his visor stayed glued to the screen and Sarge’s valve. The cursing, snarling soldier took every pounding thrust and demanded more. Soundwave had needed a ball joint in his hip replaced from keeping up the pace through repeated viewings. The tip of his spike had rubbed down to the raw metal. He’d run out of excuses to sent his Cassettes away while he took care of the charge stiffening his spike to a throbbing, urgent pressure heavy between his thighs every time he turned around.

It’d been his dirtiest secret. He’d positively itched to find a scarred-up military mech with a cracked optic and crooked sneer to take him so hard and often he’d be reduced to fingers and toys to satisfy someone who couldn’t be satisfied. The urge to offer his spike had crawled under his plating where he couldn’t dig it out. He’d been nervous for a meta-cycle, paranoid that someone would somehow detect his secret need to submit. For a mech working for a Senator, willingly offering to please instead of be pleased was a huge sign of weakness. His colleagues would have turned against him in a split second.

He’d covertly purchased a spike-ring, for Primus’ sake. What self-respecting mech got toys for his spike like that? Sure, it’d increased his stamina, but who wanted to be known for how long he could keep it up?

The overloads had been mindblowing, he had to admit. Whoever had filmed the Sarge porn vids knew exactly how long to tease viewers for the best results.

Soundwave squirmed in his seat and ran the search. He really wanted to see what had happened to Sarge, now.

The search came back with nothing. Disappointing, but really, he should have known better. Clearly, Sarge enlisted in the Decepticons. He probably had the enlistment officer begging him to command a unit before he’d even given his designation. Soundwave might have transferred to that unit the second he saw who was in charge. Sarge just had that kind of personal presence. Soundwave could only imagine how powerful it was in person, considering how much it affected him through a vidscreen. The slagging memory alone was making it uncomfortable to sit still.

He pinged the Decepticon database to run that search while continuing to search for old celebrity names in Ratchet’s files.

He thought it strange when the search came back negative in the Decepticon files as well. Soundwave paused to puzzle over that, head cocked to the side. He felt like an idiot when he realized what he’d done wrong. Fragging Pit, the old adage was right: get his spike excited and a mech became a fool.

‘Sarge’ was a pornstar name, not the actor’s real name. That was an easy fix. He’d run an image search instead of a name search.

Except the file his search returned came from Ratchet’s files, and it had no name. There was only the image of a patient with the right features but the wrong paintjob, and a numb, empty look of shock that didn’t fit Soundwave’s memories at all. From the date, the nameless patient treated by the Autobot emergency field medical facility had been pulled from the wreckage of one of Iacon’s collapsed buildings during the first bombing runs. After treatment, the nameless actor with Sarge’s body disappeared.

Soundwave pulled all of his attention to the files, searching in earnest this time. 

His focus didn’t escape notice. He could all but feel Jazz sliding over to breathe down the back of his neck, but a startled sound from the ex-saboteur indicated he recognized the photo up on the screen as Soundwave tore through records. “Hey, I **know** that guy.” 

For a second, hope buoyed Soundwave. 

“That’s Sarge, right? Amazing valve, I remember that one vid where he -- he’s an Autobot? You’re kidding!” 

So much for that hope. “Soundwave: rarely humorous,” the distracted Decepticon muttered.

“Don’t I know it. Is he still alive?”

“Status: unknown. Searching.” Images blurred by on the right side of the screen as Soundwave ran comparison searches through the Decepticon files. Nobody else was hitting the right features to trigger a match. “Possibly Neutral. Neutral database of survivors available for search?”

Even if Jazz knew of one, they both knew he wouldn’t tell Soundwave. He shook his head. “Nothing but Shocker’s census, but that ain’t anything yet. Hold on, lemme…” He eased his hands under Soundwave’s and typed in a quick flurry of date corrections, too curious not to help. “We had a big enlistment push right after the bombings. Anybody who didn’t sign up on the spot would’ve gone to one of the stations throughout the city to enlist. Somebody wearing that look, they’d either run for the outer cities and only gotten involved again when forced, or they’d -- “ The console pinged. “Or they’d do that. Um. Yeah. **Wow.** ”

Soundwave echoed his flat statement, throat flexing around a silent vocalizer. It came out a static crackle.

The two mechs stared at the screen, visors equally wide. A completely different record, registered at the same field station at the exact same time as ‘Sarge’ had checked in, under the same medic with the same injuries with the same history. The only difference was the picture on the log. An edited picture, when Jazz clicked on it to check the date, added when the mech officially enlisted half a stellar cycle later.

“That’s an impressive cosmetic overhaul.” Jazz whistled low.

“Disguised well,” Soundwave agreed. “No information on reformat in Decepticon Intelligence. Autobot Intelligence?”

“Mech, if anybody in SpecOps knew about this, we’d have been in that mech’s berth every night with our spikes out, sayin’, _‘Ride me, ride me now.’_ Ironhide would’ve beaten us there. He had a **shrine** to Sarge. He still has all the vids. I can hook you up,” Jazz offered idly.

“Offer appreciated.” He’d have to authorize a separate channel to add to the broadcast schedule, and why not? Porn vids were a form of entertainment like any other. It’d been a risqué but legitimate part of the industry before the war. A money-making part that his division could cash in on. “Pay-Per-View set-up possible.”

“That is evil, and I want a cut for every vid I sweet-talk Ironhide into parting with.”

“Agreed.” Soundwave leaned in for a closer study of the photo. He’d never noticed the similarities, but he’d never tried to see Sarge in this mech. “Likelihood of contact for interview generating favorable response?” He didn’t know if his spike hatch could take the pressure if they spoke, but Polyhex would go berserk over that interview. He’d suffer for the libido of the people.

“Foooooo, you don’t ask much do ya.” Jazz kept his voice down and chewed on his bottom lip as he stared at the screen. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. He never said nothing, Sounders. Whole war, and he didn’t say word one. Could be embarrassment, or not wantin’ people to expect something he ain’t. ‘Cause he ain’t anything like Sarge, he’s really -- “ The sentence trailed off before Jazz gave a quiet, “Huh.” A thoughtful look slowly swept his face, and Soundwave glanced back as Jazz’s stare turned intent. 

“Statement inaccurate?”

“…not really? I, um, no.” Because that was helpful. Soundwave gave him an unamused look. Jazz shook the strange thought away and grinned brightly. “Tell you what: lemme test how open he is to talking ‘bout old history, and I’ll pass word up the chain to you.”

That would likely work better than a direct call from Media & Entertainment. “In return?”

“Can you **please** get your pretty-kitty to stop sharpening his claws on my electro-bass? It’s not like I can get a replacement; that thing’s **vintage**!” 

“What are you two talking about over there?” Ratchet yelled from the other end of the clinic, his suspicion skewering them out of nowhere. 

Jazz and Soundwave nearly slapped each other trying to hit the console screen’s power button at the same time. “Nothing!” 

“Those are patient medical files, not gossip to be snickering over!”

“We know!”

“Understood.”

Ratchet eyed them. Soundwave nudged Jazz away, and the Autobot strolled back to his observation point dusting invisible specks of dirt off his own hood. “You’d better ‘understood’,” the medic grumbled, “or I’m going to ‘understood’ my foot up your exhaust pipes so far you’ll be eating rubber.”

“Gotcha, Ratchet.”

“Threats: tiresome.”

“I’ll ‘tiresome’ you!”

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

_[ **A/N:** I laughed myself sick writing this. I hope you like it, NK.]_


	2. Part 2: Disciplinary Measures Will Be Taken

**Title:** Call of Duty  
**Warning:** Porn and pornstars. Power imbalance? Fantasies and libidos spinning out of control.  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Continuity:** G1  
**Characters:** Soundwave, Megatron, Onslaught, Jazz, Hound  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** NK won the fic/art auction, and she gave us a kinkmeme prompt (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/10462.html?thread=9152990#t9152990). Basically, whatever happened to the pornstars of Cybertron?

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part Two: Disciplinary Measures Will Be Taken**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

One of the best things about peace was that there was time to kick back and relax. Onslaught intended to do just that. 

The spaceport project was fighting him bureaucratic hand over fist, and he needed time away from sorting out Swindle's latest 'deal' on perma-crete that wouldn't last through two shuttle take-offs, much less the landing of a full-sized frigate. Blast Off had stormed into his office -- actually stormed, which was the most emotion Onslaught had seen him display in or out of battle -- and started yelling about failed tests. The spectacle would have been fascinating if the stats he was waving over his head didn’t screw their budget over six ways from Cybertron. The timetable, too, since the perma-crete had already been poured and would have to be demolished before the proper landing pads could be built.

Swindle had conveniently vanished from the buildsite. The last Grapple had seen of the conmech, there had been casual sidling going on. Casual sidling, as anyone who knew anything about Swindle knew, meant that the mech knew he was in trouble and was on his way to a bolthole. Onslaught wouldn’t be pinning responsibility for this mess on him, not so long as Swindle could safely remain in hiding.

That wasn’t quite true. Everybody on the buildsite put the blame on the one they all _knew_ was responsible, but unless and until Vortex could track the slippery, sneaky bugger down, Shockwave was holding _Onslaught_ accountable. Without Swindle confessing his sins, all Shockwave had was an order form that had Onslaught’s signature on it. The indignant supplier refused to issue a refund on ordered, paid for, and used product, and nobody would come down on a supplier who'd done his job. 

Except that _somebody_ had tweaked the order form. The specific kind of product the spaceport needed had been swapped for one that was significantly cheaper, and the difference in shanix had been pocketed somewhere between Onslaught’s desk and the supplier.

Shockwave hadn’t thrown Onslaught into a cell to rust because even he knew Swindle was involved. Whether or not the smallest Combaticon was to blame was up in the air, but statistically speaking, Swindle was more likely to be at fault than not whenever inferior goods turned up and money went missing. That was simply the natural order of the universe. Money gone = Swindle skimmed it. 

The speculation hinged on Vortex dragging Swindle back out into the open, however, and Vortex wasn't in a hurry. He thought chasing Swindle down to be a hilarious game. The helicopter had left the office laughing. Onslaught had wanted to punch him for that, but he'd refrained. His bad mood wasn't Vortex’s fault. 

Directly, it was Swindle’s. Indirectly, it was Blast Off’s. The shuttle had disappeared for a couple days in orbit to recover from his unprecedented show of emotion, something Onslaught was glad for. Blast Off showing visible emotion was unexpectedly exhausting. 

He'd turned out to be one of those mechs who ranted for a breem, settled down to fuming silence just long enough for a sensible mech to think the issue dropped, and then something, anything, would set him off again. He'd rehashed the same rant about nine times, using phrases like _”I’m not complaining, I’m just saying.”_ and _“It’s not that I’m shapist, but mechs with that frametype.”_

Breems of extremely shapist complaints later, Onslaught had pitched the prejudiced pile of walking slag out on his thrusters. There was only so much of that he could take. Blast Off had the sensitivity of a rock. At least Vortex offended people intentionally. Vastly irritating as that could be, it indicated a passing awareness that other people’s emotions existed. They might not matter to Vortex other than a sign of what button to push, but the 'copter knew they were there.

Blast Off hadn’t even noticed Onslaught glaring at him for being a rusted collection of offensive beliefs. He was a groundframe just like Swindle. He’d put up with snide little comments from flightframes all his blasted life, but usually mechs had the decency to say them behind his back. 

It'd taken physically pitching the shuttleframe out the office door before Blast Off even got an inkling that his boss didn't want him disgracing the place. A frametype superiority complex was a workplace conversation killer of the worst kind, and yet flyers kept wondering why they couldn't keep a steady job. Ugh. It had to be a pre-war attitude carry-over, back from when city populations separated by frametype instead of faction.

Onslaught had spent the rest of the shift on his commlink. He’d browbeaten his helicopter into taking the mission seriously, resulting in a 50/50 chance of Swindle turning up in person or in a bodybag. That was an improvement of sorts, he supposed. He’d also ignored increasingly passive-aggressive pseudo-apologies from his shuttle that only succeeded in offending him further (“I didn’t mean **you** , you’re different than mechs like that -- not that I’m shapist or anything -- and I wasn’t complaining, I was just saying”). Once Onslaught had gotten fed up with those, he’d spent the last cycle of his shift sending death threats into the dead end that was Swindle’s comm. frequency. It might not have been productive, but it made him feel better. 

Being the Combaticon commander was a lot like being trapped aboard a wooden lifeboat with a termite colony. If Onslaught sat on Swindle, the other three would destroy the boat from their own combinations of blind arrogance, stupidity, and self-destructive sadism. While he restrained them, Swindle would sell the boat from under them, compelled by inbuilt greed. There was no way to win.

He’d fired Brawl a while back, which was the equivalent of pitching dead weight overboard. The boat had been moderately easier to manage since then. Both Vortex and Blast Off tread lightly. They knew that any business desperate enough to hire them wouldn't pay slag, and most bosses were far less tolerant than Onslaught. Onslaught was used to their, ah, idiosyncrasies. Their idiocy in general, really. 

As long as their usefulness outstripped their annoyance factor, he'd keep them on the payroll. As Swindle's presence had proved, Onslaught was capable of putting up with an awful lot in the name of continued business, but they were careful to stay assets instead of liabilities. Normally, they didn’t test his temper this way. They weren't nearly as useful to the spaceport project as Swindle was. They could be replaced within a deca-cycle. 

Swindle? Not so much. 

Oh, Onslaught had every intention of turning the Jeep over to the project accountant’s tender mercies once Vortex got back. Swindle would be the one handed over to Shockwave under charges of embezzlement, not Onslaught. Swindle deserved to be arrested, but if -- and it was a big ‘if’ because Swindle really was the best at what he did; rumor had it even _Optimus Prime_ called on him -- the charges stuck, the spaceport project would be down a procurer. 

That was a future headache in the making. Maybe Onslaught could hire Sideswipe as a replacement until Swindle inevitably weaseled out of prison. Only until then, of course. Onslaught wanted the greedy sack of junk’s head on a pike, but there was no question about hiring the mech back after the legal issues were settled. He was too fragging good at his job to not hire him. Swindle did a lot more than make money deals, and the project _needed_ him in order to run smoothly. 

The merchant was relatively pleasant company outside of schmoozing, but he could talk anyone into anything when he hit his stride. In sales mode, he possessed the nigh-magical ability to charm even Huffer, Grapple, Brawn, and Gears into working efficiently. Quietly would have been a Primus-sent miracle Swindle hadn’t managed yet, but there were times Onslaught wanted to nominate the mech for sainthood anyway. The smallest Combaticon could spend two shifts straight nodding earnest agreement to the latest bout of griping from the Autobot quartet of nonstop whining. Onslaught would rather shoot himself in the head than be cornered by those mechs, and he’d hired them. 

He was siccing Blast Off on the Jeep the next time the shuttle got his heat panels ruffled, and it wasn’t just because he currently wanted to throw Swindle into a trash compactor. The merchant had people skills. Highly-irritating-people skills. 

Plus, Onslaught wanted to see Blast Off try to excuse his shapism to a groundframe who fit every single criteria for what shapists like him were prejudiced against. He imagined the shuttleframe would get an excellent taste of his own foot by the end of that conversation. Swindle would smile that encouraging salesmech smile, nod without agreeing, and let Blast Off talk himself into an uncomfortable verbal corner from whence there was no dignified escape. 

That a mental picture to savor. Heh heh heh.

But that was a plan for another day, a day long after Vortex found Swindle. For now, Onslaught was finished with his shift. His commlink was offline, blocking Blast Off’s sulky messages and anything else to do with his job. He could do that these days. The war was over, and therefore constant contact wasn’t necessary. His emergency contact information was for precisely that: emergency. His secretary had it, and Onslaught was fairly sure nothing short of people running around _on fire_ could convince Groove that there was an actual emergency requiring him to be called in. Even in that unlikely event, Groove would first recommend everyone go for a drive to calm down.

Groove didn’t do panic. Groove occasionally did strange liquids in funny colors (First Aid had a controlled-substances medical testing permit, theoretically), but he didn’t do panic. Onslaught’s contact information was safe in his hands.

That left nothing but free time on the schedule until the next shift. Onslaught intended it to be spent in blissful isolation. 

The absolute best thing about peace was the ability to live by himself, do things by himself, and own things that didn't get smashed, stolen, or hijacked for use by anyone else. He already had to work with other people; the last thing he wanted to do was share his off-duty time with them. The other Combaticons had never even been invited through his door, and they never would be if he had anything to say about it. 

The one time Vortex had picked the lock and invited himself in had been the last. Onslaught had caught him drinking his highgrade. He’d promptly shot the ‘copter. Then he’d successfully pressed charges against him for harassment, home invasion, and burglary.

Vortex hadn’t known how to face charges brought by his own gestalt commander, much less how to deal with a civilian court based off of a military court that had his military history on hand. One or the other he could have handled. Everything at once had overwhelmed him. Onslaught had counted on that. 

Peace was, as he was discovering every day, strangely satisfying. He didn’t have to put up with half the scrap he’d had to during the war. Didn’t like Blast Off’s attitude? Kick him out of the office. Brawl got into another fight? Fire him. Swindle robbed him? Let the project accountant turn him inside-out, take the refund out of him, and bring him up on embezzlement charges. It wasn’t Onslaught’s problem anymore. Barring execution, anything that happened to the other Combaticons was no longer his concern. A professional annoyance, perhaps, but nothing personal.

As Vortex had discovered, much to his bewilderment. It turned out that laughing off the charges didn’t work so well. Neither did mocking the authority of the appointed judge at that particular court. This was a different Cybertron, one with a Decepticon judicial system well aware of Vortex the interrogator, mindfragger, sadist, and killer. By the time the judge had all the additional charges for contempt, threatening behavior, and various, possibly made-up legal violations stacked up on top of Onslaught’s case, Vortex had faced vorns as a prisoner in the smelterworks.

The other Combaticons didn’t care. Forced labor wasn’t a death sentence and wasn’t the Detention Centre. Frag, it’d keep him out of their way for the length of his sentence. Fabulous. That sounded great. They wouldn’t be lifting a finger to help him.

Vortex’s humble, crawling plea for an out-of-court settlement was still Onslaught’s ringtone. The whole thing. He let the entire audio file play through before picking up his personal comm. frequency. It sounded like perfect victory, every time. 

He slouched down and casually flicked through the entertainment options on the vidscreen taking up one full wall of his flat. Primus, he loved this thing. It was bigger than his altmode and had been bought from the growing stash of money Vortex paid him as part of the settlement. Half the mech’s pay, every deca-cycle, right on time.

The entertainment screens had changed since he’d sat down to flick through them last. Media & Entertainment couldn’t just let a good thing be. They had to keep making it better. 

Onslaught relaxed further, kicking one heel up onto the end of the couch. The remote clicked as he channelsurfed happily.

Huh, _General Practitioner_. He remembered that show. Not really what he wanted to watch tonight, but he bookmarked the screen for another time. 

A separate DYI channel had shown up, full of shows from people like Scrapper and Red Alert. Nope, not interested. Do-It-Yourself was for mechs who couldn’t afford to Pay-Someone-Else. 

No, no action vids tonight. That might get his fuel pump rate up, and that wouldn’t do. Becoming one with the couch was the extent of his life goals at the moment. Excitement would be counter-productive to that goal.

He skipped past the nature channel without pausing. 

Tracks had a reality show now? Fashion, of course, and that explained why everyone on the buildsite kept stopping to call in votes at mid-shift. He’d better not watch it, or he’d get sucked into the world of repaints, buffing, model makeovers, and photography. There was something horribly addictive about watching contestants pose, preen, and scramble for first place.

 _Welcome to the Gun Show_ might be worth watching this cycle. Guest starring Chromia and Ironhide wasn’t quite at the level of inviting, say, Wheeljack onto the show, but explosions were guaranteed.

Well then. "This is new," Onslaught murmured, sitting straighter. "Padding the Media & Entertainment branch's budget a little, are we, Soundwave?" Pay-Per-View was definitely a new selection screen. He'd have remembered it being there before. Swindle would have certainly told him about it, even if he'd missed it somehow. 

Swindle was already rolling in shanix after selling his sales experience to new businesses looking to buy commercial spots from M&E, but Pay-Per-View meant that Soundwave was now selling access to content. That was a brand new opening in the post-war entertainment industry. 

Glee bubbled up in Onslaught’s spark. Swindle had to be tying himself into teeny-weeny burning knots of greed versus common sense. Conflicted purple optics were probably staring at the screen right this moment, knowing Vortex would find him the klik he contacted anyone to exploit this wide-open commercial opportunity. But it was right there. Waiting. Tempting.

That greed glitch would erode anything in its path given enough time. Swindle was going to have plenty of time to see himself putting his own neck on the chopping block.

Mm, good thoughts.

He scrolled through the vidfilm options. They’d better not be showing snuff films, because he'd strangle Vortex if the 'copter showed up on the vidscreen without warning him first. The buildsite crew would take a deca-cycle to calm down enough to work with the mech again.

Although it didn't look like the choices were violent. There were a dozen old vidfilms that were obviously there for those who were too impatient to wait for the regular broadcast cycle to run. Then there was one vidfilm that could have been used as an example of ‘one of these things is not like the others.’ The ratings jump was like none other. 

The summary alone had Onslaught's temperature gauge climbing. He _remembered_ that actor. Sarge used to be _the_ macho fantasy mech for anybody involved in the military before the war. Maybe especially for those who liked the look and attitude of military mechs sans the undesirable traits of people who were actually in the military. Having been in the Decepticons for so long, Onslaught could say with utter certainty that not many combat veterans could pull off the sexual aspect like Sarge had.

Just remembering triggered his interface equipment. He’d spent far too long among swaggering pompous afts with bad hygiene and worse attitudes. In a faction that emphasized size as an indicator of influence and power, Onslaught had forgotten what mechs with charisma were like. Megatron could pull it off. So could Swindle. Sarge, though. He bled confidence, the self-assurance of someone who knew he could take on a battalion in every conceivable way. He was badaft without being big, covered in guns and glory without losing an inch in sex appeal, and what he lost in size he more than made up for in flexibility. 

He also had a way of jerking his chin at the camera that made a mech want to fall to his knees in front of the screen. Raw, primal magnetism filled every move he made. 

This was a terrible idea. This was a wonderful, terrible idea. Onslaught had half his credit account number entered before he even realized he'd selected the vidfilm. This one! Fragging Primus in the Pit but did he remember this one. _'Sarge returns a hero to the barracks, but it seems his unit has been shipped off. Instead, he has ten new recruits to train. Unruly, unkempt, and untamed, they need an officer to get them hard and ready. Does Sarge have what it takes to **discipline** them?'_

The last number clicked in. Somebody over in M&E now had far too much information about what the Combaticon commander did in his spare time. He should be worried about that, concerned for his public image, but at the moment he couldn’t care less. He zipped through the last approval screen and sat forward on the couch. His visor locked on the screen.

A pale crackle of white static filled it as the old vidfilm started. Porn vids had never been of high quality to begin with. Time hadn’t helped preserve quality, it seemed. 

Empty sky, dark but scattered with stars, and then the stark blaze of a training ground floodlight. Against it, a sudden black silhouette. Musings on vidfilm quality slammed to a halt, and Onslaught's ventilation system stopped. The remote crumpled around the edges as his hand tensed. 

Broad shoulders marked with the signature stars, a narrow waist that allowed for bending in every conceivable direction, and a chest made entirely of old weld-scars and broken glass. Clean, but not polished; short, but not squat; military correct posture, but radiating a sense that the military had based the stance off what he did instead of the other way around. A chiseled jaw, blocky helm, a gun barrel, a machete hilt, and thighs spread wide enough a mech could fit his face between them. 

When the camera panned down Sarge's body, Onslaught's fans flipped from 'off' to 'high' with no stop in between. Those scars looked like he could fit his fingers in them, and those shoulders against the floodlights made him want them over him, blocking out the light just like that. An HUD error pinged Onslaught to open his vents to let the fans actually do something when the camera finally started back up. Heat billowed out into the room abruptly.

He panted air rapidly, trying to cool down. This was ridiculous. The vid had barely even started!

The pan upward revealed enough ammunition to take on Primus Himself, one cracked optic that could see anything a mech tried to hide from it, and the most unimpressed scowl Cybertron had ever seen. "Atten- **hut**!" bellowed through the speakers, and Onslaught nearly snapped to his feet.

The camera pulled back to see a group of filthy combat frames. They sneered and sauntered into a loose approximation of a formation. Sarge's unimpressed sneer deepened, and he directed it straight through the screen into Onslaught’s living room to judge him unworthy of venting exhaust. Onslaught quivered where he sat upright, fans stalled under that glare. Hands and remote were tangled together in his lap as if to cover the embarrassing whirr of his spike starting to pressurize. 

Oh, Primus, this was why only powerful mechs used their valves. Mechs didn’t use spikes; spikes used mechs. The weaker a mech, the more he popped his spike hatch. Spikes were beyond control once fragging came up, and a stiff one was impossible to hide. There was nothing quite like having a body part that betrayed how even a mech who scorned his very existence turned him on. A thoroughly disdainful look, and his spike thudded against its hatch. Onslaught’s shoulders hunched, and his fingers twined together in his lap.

" **Look** at the lot of yuh!" Sarge spat in a thick Rust Sea drawl. "I ain't seen a worse bunch'uh scum since I scraped the bottoms of my feet. Well, I'll clean yuh up." The camera pulled back, and the leader of the group scoffed. Sarge stepped up into his face to curl a (decoratively split) lip and give him a once over. "I'll whip yuh into shape, yuh lazy good-for-nothing wastes uh space. Yuh'll know yer place after I'm done whitcha."

"Oh yeah? And where's that?" one of the others piped up. 

Sarge yanked the leader down to his knees, and there was a close-up shot at visor-to-crotch level. "Under me," the rust-camouflage officer told him with a good shot of his smug expression from down below. The innuendo oozed, it was so blatant, and even more blatant was the leader's tongue coming out to lick his lips, his visor focused on pelvic armor for a long, endless moment.

Anticipation crawled up the back of Onslaught’s neck and clicked his spike hatch open loud enough to echo in the empty apartment. He scooted forward on the couch, knees pressed tightly together to cover how his spike pressurized so fast it made his processor whirl. The stupid porn vid dialogue had him ridiculously turned on, and he couldn’t even pretend he was stronger than this. He was weak. He had no control. His interface array had taken over his thoughts, and the only thing in his head was how desperately he wanted to interface. 

The cheesy plot was so obviously meant to move things on to the porn that he was getting antsy just listening. His spike throbbed in rhythmic waves with the pulse of hydraulic pumps, and his thighs eased apart to allow one hand to sneak down and touch himself. 

It was entirely predictable, of course. Sarge got the unit into the washracks, and there was some mild sparring that Onslaught could recognize as completely choreographed now that he'd actually fought in a war. He remembered being impressed by how easily Sarge tossed the larger combatframes around, before. Now he was more impressed by the camera angles that allowed it to look like ten mechs could get their afts kicked by one smaller mech without causing any visible damage beyond some scuff marks.

And then there was the best camera angle of all, panning up from the lead soldier's perspective. Onslaught pressed his thighs together around his hands, hard around his spike, as the camera slowly, slowly worked its way up thick armor, thighs that were made to be grabbed, and --

He didn't moan, but it was a close thing. Yeah. Yeah, this was what he remembered about the Sarge vidfilms. That _valve_. The producers of the Sarge series had done a wonderful service to first person perspective porn by putting the viewer in the place of the various conquests of Sarge, military action hero. The camouflage paintjob lightened to a glistening, polished silver, the contour rings up inside catching the light in slivers of barely-visible moving parts that gleamed like liquid mercury as lubricant trickled down. 

Onslaught’s spike popped free of his hands and thighs to bob in open air, eager and needing. Never had Onslaught wanted to use it more than when Sarge spread his legs and told him to get down there on the double. He was on his knees in front of the screen without even thinking about it.

"I said," Sarge growled in that rough-edge voice, "get down there and clean. Yuh need to learn to follow through on orders, and no time like the present. Yuh ain't getting up until I'm," the camera jolted as the leader's face was yanked flush to the edge of that valve, " **satisfied** yuh did a good job. Got that?"

"Yeah," came breathily through the speakers, and Onslaught thought about getting off his knees and back onto the couch for about a second. Then a tongue came on screen, licking up into that waiting valve. The Combaticon's finger's curled, and he made a little sound as the valve clamped down tight enough to make metal squeal. "I mean -- yeth **thir**!"

Dignity was long gone. Onslaught was sitting back on his knees in front of the vidscreen, spike out in his hand, hips rocking in time with the frantic lapping and close up shot of the drip of lubricant off armor. He didn't really care about dignity at the moment. He cared that with a screen this big, he could almost see up into Sarge's valve past the licking. If he squinted his visor out of focus, he could raise his hand and pretend it was his fingers slipping in to pull it wide open.

"I say you could put your filthy paws on me?!" roared from the speakers, and a yelped chorus of _'No sir!'_ came in surround sound. Onslaught might have said something, too, but he was panting too hard to notice if he'd been part of the chorus. The noises spilling out of his vocalizer were small and urgent, and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning forward like he was the one lapping in renewed obedience. The fingers pulled out, his hand going to the floor to keep his balance, and it was just a shot of that valve flexing around the tongue working in and out of it. His hand squeezed and stroked faster and faster, spike twitching as he imagined plunging into that slick, hot valve in time with the thick sounds from the speakers.

He fell back as Sarge's palm filled the screen, throwing him down. The old soldier snarled a command, and Onslaught flung his wrists above his head, neck straining to watch past his erect spike as Sarge straddled him. What a view, what a _view_ , but he wasn’t allowed to touch himself or the battered knuckles in and out of that tight, responsive valve he could practically taste --

\-- what the frag, he didn't even have a mouth --

\-- until Onslaught was promising, "I'll be good, sir! I will! I'll do whatever you say! Anything you say, sir, please sir, please take me sir!"

"Yuh ain't been doing too good-a job so far at that," Sarge snorted, Hands appeared at his waist, lifting him off Onslaught while the Combaticon whined in frustration. Helm and heels took Onslaught’s weight as his hips rode up after that valve.

Although this was almost as good, because the camera switched to another soldier's perspective. One hand braced against the washrack wall, Sarge bent forward and slapped his other hand back to grab the soldier by the hip and pulling him into place. “And don’t yuh stop ‘til I’m done with yuh!” the officer growled as he took that spike in one buck of his hips. “Yuh’re here for one reason and one only: something hard t’use. Got that?” Panting grunts answered him, and Onslaught scrambled back to sit against the abandoned couch, visor locked on the gasping, clanging grind on the screen while his hand frantically wrung his spike from root to tip.

"No, wait, sir, I'm almost there," he pleaded under the whirr of his fans when Sarge contemptuously pushed the second solder away.

"Yuh’re ready to blow already? I ain’t even **near** heated, and yuh think yuh’re done? Getcher lazy aft up and at-‘em, or I’ll find someone who can do his duty and yuhrs while he’s at it. I could replace yuh with any mech in here -- frag, with a gun barrel! -- and buff my sensors better than yuh’re doing. Yuh’all need **discipline**!" snapped him in a way that was more command than anything. "Yuh’all need it, and I’m not walkin’ outta here ‘til one-a yuh manages to stay hard long enough for a real frag. So help me, scrapheap, I catch yuh not at the ready, I'll have yur laid out every shift learning the meaning of combat readiness under **real** pressure." 

That was the dirtiest piece of double-entendre Onslaught had heard, and he'd never be able to do an inspection again without imagining what kind of combat he was getting ready for. He whimpered as he pinched the tip of his spike, because Primus help the soldier who overloaded before Sarge was done with him.

"That's what I thought," huffed at him. “I want yuh at the ready. Yuh pump twice and mess, and I ain’t even revved. Get back to work, oilguzzler!” Those grabbable thighs were dead center on the screen again, and the camera did a quick pan around the washrack to show the whole unit in disarray, spikes out and hovering on the verge of coming on the floor. "Come at me! I can take yuh all, see if I can't!"

Onslaught hadn't remembered how good the Sarge films were until everything came to one climactic ending and the credits rolled. He was left shivering on the floor, still on his knees, spike limp in his hand as he stroked a last spurt out in a tremble of overworked hip joints thrusting into his hand. The after-image of Sarge arching back as he finally came stayed in his mind. That’d been worth every credit he'd spent. 

He'd have bought another viewing if he had the stamina for a second round, but his fuel pump was thundering fast enough to make his helm ring as it was. Onslaught just squeezed his spent spike and breathed deep, remembering the sweet sight of a valve too flexible to be real as it took fingers, tongues, the washrack shower nozzle, and three mechs’ spikes. Sarge had ridden them all, sneered as he outlasted their best efforts to make him respond how they wanted, do what they lusted. Instead, he’d brought them all to overload on command, fully disciplined at last. 

If only that method worked on real soldiers.

Fumbling for the remote, Onslaught turned off the screen. It took two tries to get back to his feet. Woo, okay, that’d been a bit more intense than he’d thought. He wasn't even a blasted submissive mech in the berth, yet he'd been squealing on command at the end. Primus. He needed to look up whatever had happened with that series. There had been a bunch of vidfilms the last he knew, and he kind of needed to see them all again, now. If Soundwave was going to put them up on Pay-Per-View, then Onslaught was going to buy a slagging subscription. M&E was going to know things about his personal life that would scar them for life.

Maybe there were more films. New films. Somebody would have said something if Sarge had died, right? And pornstars didn't retire. They just rested between epic bouts of fragging.

He'd think about it later. He had a big chunk of free time to spend looking it up.

Onslaught collapsed on the couch and passed out.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Pt. 3: Ve Have Vays of Making You Talk

**Title:** Call of Duty  
**Warning:** Porn and pornstars. Power imbalance? Fantasies and libidos spinning out of control.  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Continuity:** G1  
**Characters:** Soundwave, Megatron, Onslaught, Jazz, Hound  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** NK won the fic/art auction, and she gave us a kinkmeme prompt (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/10462.html?thread=9152990#t9152990). Basically, whatever happened to the pornstars of Cybertron?

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part Three: Ve Have Vays of Making You Talk**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

The shoulders weren't as broad. The ammunition belts were gone. The guns and the machete Megatron recalled being used in ways they really shouldn't have been were also gone. The scarred chestplate had been replaced by headlights and the front grill of an Earth vehicle. Swindle had a similar altmode.

That gave him a deeper aversion to seeing Sarge in this mech. Bad enough he was an Autobot; even worse that he resembled Swindle in any way.

Megatron frowned and studied the picture on the screen, hoping that there would be something he could pick out as obviously wrong. Nothing stood out. "Are you certain this is the same mech?" His question doubted, but he couldn't unsee it now that he was looking for it. This was -- or had been, anyway -- Sarge.

The waist, yes. That was the same. It was narrow enough to invite a mech’s hands to rest on it, and flexible underneath the heavy altmode armor above and below. Those thighs could still be the same, allowing for changes made by a different vehicle mode. They were less powerful off the vidscreen, but in reality, the Autobot was small, much smaller than erotic dreams and good camera angles had painted him in Megatron’s fantasies. The unadorned black pelvic span looked just as heavy as in the pornvids, however. The thighs were more of an accent and handholds for the valve Megatron could easily picture opening up between them.

His frown deepened into a scowl to hide the pensive furrow forming between his optics. This was Sarge, alright. The helm shape was actually fairly similar, close enough to the right shape that he felt somewhat foolish for not seeing the resemblance sooner, but it helped to know that apparently no one else had, either. Besides, the face under the rugged angles was all wrong. 

It was disappointing to find out that the scars had all been cosmetic. Megatron had originally wanted to keep all of his battlescars, back when the war started. He’d thought they granted him a certain dramatic flair. 

"97% certainty." Soundwave shifted uncomfortably and tapped a few keys, bringing up a few extra pictures for comparison. "I have not confirmed identity with Autobot Hound, and Autobot Jazz has not reported results of contacting him for an interview. Steps taken to leave past behind suggest he may not wish to reclaim his past identity."

Sarge sneering and Sarge flashing a roguish grin were brought up side-by-side with Hound bird-watching on Earth and Hound smiling bashfully at the camera. Megatron's face twisted, disbelief and disgust turning his tanks as he looked from one side to the other. The last pictures to pop up were the Autobot’s prisoner induction photoscan and the photoscan attached to his business permit application. One showed a weary soldier with dull finish and defeated optics; the other had Hound positively beaming out of the screen, holding one of the flowers he imported for his garden shop here in Polyhex. 

Megatron’s processors took in the data they were handed and fumbled it, trying to fit square pegs into round holes. There had to be something here he wasn't seeing, because he did not look at the cheerful gardener who regularly sent Optimus Prime bouquets of foil-flower hybrids and think ‘Sarge.’ That blasted scout _could not be_ the same mech he would have gladly popped his panel for, anytime and anywhere. It just wasn’t possible!

Sarge had shoulders broader than Megatron's own, or at least the attitude to make it seem like he did. Thinking about it, Megatron winced as reality forced him to revise his memories of Sarge in light of the mech who’d played the role. It'd been sheer screen presence that made him seem to loom over enemy soldiers and fill a room, not size. Hound was probably the right size, really. 

He was the right everything, now that Megatron made himself see it. Lose some shoulder armor and change out the chest piece for something functional instead of what had likely been a cover over his altmode's front end, and replace the cracked optic that’d probably been a fake. The facial scars were cosmetic. The shin armor must have been removable, too. A different paint job in Cybertron’s camouflage colors instead of Earth’s would go a long way toward making Hound look right, and it had to have been camera angles that’d made him taller than he was in reality. 

That made sense. Real mechs didn't go around silhouetted by explosions and constantly cast in the best light to make a cracked optic look sexy instead of pitiable. 

It made him wonder when the scout had gotten his hologram projector. That had probably gone a long way in furthering his career in porn, if it’d been a modification Hound installed before the war. 

It also made him wonder if the Autobot ever --

That wasn’t a thought he should be having.

Soundwave cocked his head at him as Megatron reset his vocalizer. 

Rather than meet the question in Soundwave’s visor, he stood up and walked around the desk to get a different angle on the screen. Okay, fine. He’d admit that the helm, the waist, and maybe the thighs were the same. The hips had a different shape to the armor, but they were strong and wide enough to make Megatron’s throat work as he looked at them. The chest was roughly the same size. The distinctive stars were the same. They were even in the same spots. Frag, he should have noticed _that_ , at least. 

The face threw him off. And it didn’t help that his circuits heated the longer he stared at the pictures. Was there a single picture of Sarge in the entire series where he didn’t pose like an invitation to frag? Well, more like a demand. If it wasn't the spread legs, it was the fingers subtly parted to suggest a ready valve. 

Megatron had to turn his face away from Soundwave, that inappropriate curiosity about the hologram projector and past acting experience nagging at his thoughts.

Soundwave was busy studying the ceiling anyway, so he didn't notice. "Autobot Hound has caused no trouble since surrender. Business permit applied for: botanical import shop. No interested expressed in revisiting previous career field."

Primus knew there would be producers lining up to film him if he did. The entire Media & Entertainment branch would fall over itself to set that up. Megatron darted a look toward the screen and licked his lips. The audience was eager, if the numbers from Soundwave’s Pay-Per-View venture said anything. Change some details, and Sarge would be back on the screen in no time.

The friendly optics of Hound were a bright, cheerful blue that Megatron wanted to see angry and a piercing yellow. Add some cosmetic lines to disguise the easy smile and make his face more forbidding, perhaps a contrasting stripe on the chin to make the jawline stronger, the whole face blockier, blunter, and --

He ripped his optics away and denied the request from his ventilation system. No, he was not overheating, and he didn't need to cool down. He was discussing a weird piece of present-day trivia with Soundwave, who shared a lot of history with him. Soundwave, who knew far too much about how a young, inexperienced faction leader had once based himself off of a series of porn vids about a particular action hero who could crush entire battalions in his well-exercised and rarely-satisfied valve.

He had the abrupt, utterly mortifying thought that Hound -- a.k.a. Sarge, a.k.a. an actor, a.k.a. an Autobot -- might have picked up on that fact. Not that Megatron had ever copied anything wholesale! He hadn’t needed that much help. He’d needed to borrow some confidence, not an entire command style. There was no way Hound would have noticed anything, not even that one speech where the sexual double-meaning couldn’t have passed over anyone's head, but still. _What if he had?_

"I want to speak with him," Megatron blurted, then reset his vocalizer and pretended he'd meant to say that. "Perhaps he can be persuaded to guest star in one of your channel specials. The Pay-Per-View options are bringing in enough extra income to make the other branches envious of your budget." Shockwave had been making noises about taking some of Soundwave's budget away. "Call it an experiment in selling commercial space. I'm sure businesses would fight for a spot on that show."

Soundwave's head snapped to the side, and a wide visor stared at him. That made him feel better about his own unease. If Soundwave was giving him that look, then the Autobot had them both equally on edge. Soundwave would have already spoken to the Autobot, otherwise.

What were they so alarmed for? It was Hound, a low-ranking Autobot scout. The only reason Megatron knew about him at all was the holograms he was known for manipulating. The mech had been a particularly frustrating thorn in the Decepticons' side during their time on Earth because of that. Other than that single equipment specialty, he didn't stand out at all. 

True, the rocket launcher was oversized for his frametype. A fine piece of armament in its own right, it had to take some skill to use, and not just in the point-and-fire sense. The scanners attached to it had to be tied into his hologram projector as well, considering how he had fooled every Decepticon on Earth at least once. The Autobot had pulled quite a few foolhardy, almost daredevil stunts now that Megatron thought back on it. Brave, then, and able to use overpowered weaponry as well as equipment that took deft handling. Not that much different than -- 

Megatron hurriedly sat down, blinking his optics back into focus. "I want him here," he said, grateful that his voice didn't sound any different. A little rasp was normal, for him. "Find an excuse."

Soundwave hesitated a long moment before nodding. "As you command," he said before standing to leave. If it was more of a flustered retreat than a calm withdrawal, nobody but Megatron would ever know.

It wasn’t as though his leader was watching him leave. Megatron had his own issues right now.

A gear pinged in Megatron’s jaw as he stared down at the screen. He'd get to the bottom of this. He'd find out if this Autobot really was the mech who'd starred in the red-light shows in the lower levels of Kaon. He couldn't believe it. 

He might believe it.

It could be true.

It probably was true. Soundwave wouldn’t fail him. The Autobot Hound had been the pornstar Sarge.

Megatron could accept that. He would accept that, disappointing as it was. He’d thought he’d lost all of his idols and heroes during the war, but it turned out that there was one last dream left to crush. All this time, he’d nurtured the absurd fantasy of someday meeting the incredibly sexy old soldier who’d inspired him, once upon a time. 

Of course, the old fighter would be grudgingly impressed by Megatron’s own accomplishments. How could he not? Megatron had led the Decepticons through a civil war to victory, and he was the victorious conqueror.

He could almost picture how it would have gone. Sarge wasn’t one to tolerate authority figures who rested on their laurels, but he respected the ones who deserved respect. Sarge would have respected _him_ , he was sure.

Narrow red optics glanced up at the door. Soundwave would send the Autobot to him, and Hound wouldn't have a choice but to come. Megatron held the power on Cybertron. A lowly scout, an Autobot at that, was a nobody. A shanix could buy six of his frametype out on the street. Megatron could have him for free by snapping his fingers. What mech wouldn’t want him? What mech could resist the ruler of an entire planet? 

Megatron commanded a planet. He led the Decepticons. He had an army at his fingertips. Officers clicked to attention when he passed. Soldiers leapt to obey his orders. Hound was a loner who’d seen better days and tried to move on past those glory days into a quiet life. Being brought to Megatron’s presence, given the attention others fought for, would bring back the memories of who he’d been and what he’d done.

It wouldn’t take much at all to bring Sarge out. After that, there was a certain inevitability about such things, wasn’t there? It came down to whether or not Megatron could handle the legend -- or perhaps, if the legend could live up to the reality.

He leaned back in his chair and smirked across the room, palms against the front of the desk and fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm on the top. The mech he studied wasn’t terribly impressive in person. Reality disappointed again. There were weldscars everywhere on heavy armor, and the cracked optic had limited vision. Hands better suited to the hilt of a gun were clasped behind him in an easy parade rest. He looked like a veteran dragged off the training ground after running a platoon ragged getting them into shape. 

He looked ready to chew up and spit out a mission assignment, any mission assignment. An insolent smirk met Megatron halfway. That, at least, lived up to the reputation. His temperature gauge told Megatron how much he was looking forward to seeing what else stayed true.

Although it was easy to see how Sarge might have hidden behind a meek Autobot personae. Weary of war, tired of being sneered at by idiot rookies he had to keep proving himself to endlessly. It was a cycle that would grind anyone down. Easier to retire into hobbies, indulging a strange botanical interest, than have to beat sense into everyone. But Megatron _knew_. Sarge couldn’t hide whom he’d been behind time and a harmless facade anymore.

Perhaps he realized that, because he didn’t make an attempt to keep up the mask. The thick Rust Sea accent was just like Megatron remembered it. "Yuh wanted to see me, sir?"

He pushed his seat out and strolled around the desk, letting his height advantage sink in as he got closer. Not so tall now, eh? "So I did. It seems there's been some question about your...identity."

A bark of laughter answered him, and the blocky helm tipped so a sly look could be directed up to meet his gaze. "I'm Sarge, sir. Who else'm I supposed to be?" 

Some mechs had the attitude to make up for size. This mech’s attitude could make a cityformer back off . The hot sweep of optics glided down Megatron from helm to foot, melting down him like an oil bath made of blatant invitation and daring. 

He recovered enough to make the step back look casual. "I've been told you're an Autobot," he said, circling the smaller mech -- he had to keep reminding himself that he was the larger mech here, he _was_ \-- and nodding as if in thought. "Care to comment on the accusation?"

"This an official interrogation?" Sarge drawled, turning to catch his optics again, and suddenly Megatron felt like he was looking _up_ at the old war veteran. Disarmed and humbled by defeat, Sarge still radiated casual confidence strong enough to make anyone think he was the one in power, here. "War's over, sir. Ain't got any reason to pump me for information."

"Oh, the war is over," Megatron agreed. He stopped in front of the old soldier and looked down at him, shoulders back as he reminded himself that he had him exactly where he wanted. "You're being called to answer for past crimes." _He_ was in charge. Yes? Yes. Him, not Sarge.

"An' what crimes are those?" A weld-scarred lip twitched up in a knowing grin. "Der-i-lic-tion of du-ty?" he drew out, exaggerating the pronunciation in a way that should not have made his teeth flash and tongue slide behind them that way.

The leader of the Decepticons should not be watching that mouth shape words that way. A commander of legions should not feel small and rubbery at the knees just because Sarge was walking forward, herding him back against the desk, a cocky hitch to that familiar strut and cracked optic glittering wickedly in the suddenly dim lighting of the office. It wasn’t like he’d ever thought about this exact scenario, in all the vorns of war. He might have fantasized about commanding Sarge, about impressing the old fighter with his accomplishments and skills, but he hadn’t ever thought about looking up at that cocky grin, pressed back and giving way before him. 

Of course not.

"Sir, I gotta say. I'm a bit offended by yuh words. Feeling like I gotta prove my worth or something."

"Or something?" It slipped out before Megatron could stop it, a shrill question freed by the surprising speed in which Sarge stooped down to take his knee out from under him. A hipcheck later, and Megatron’s hands shot up to hold onto impossibly broad, strong shoulders as the desk ambushed him from behind. Shock alone gave Sarge the time to wedge himself between the tyrant’s legs.

A big hand groped crudely between his thighs. “Or something. Maybe I should be the one asking questions. Yuh wanna bring up past crimes, **Decepticon** , I gotta start taking sides. Yuh think yuh can resist an Autobot like me?”

“I -- “ How could someone built for military service have fingers that could do _that_? Megatron’s comeback died in a hoarse groan as the manual cover over his spike was coaxed open. He started to buck his hips, intending to throw the traitor, the spy, the _enemy_ off him, but the Autobot’s other hand gripped his throat in an iron grasp that threatened to tear out vital conduits. At the same time, fingers dipped in to find his most vulnerable components and wake them.

His hands shot down to take his weight on the desk, because his legs gave out. Slumping back on the desk, he hissed through his teeth at the teasing glide of fingertips over his unpressurized spike. “You dare. You **dare**. My Decepticons will never let you live.”

“Yeah, I dare,” Sarge taunted him, giving a little twist and wiggle of his fingers that had the mech under him jolting in sudden, involuntary arousal. “Yuh gonna stop me? Don’t think yuh called me here to let me go without some…satisfaction, if yuh get my drift.” His hands gave a rotating stroke, just in case Megatron hadn’t gotten the point. “’Sides, yuh really want them in here to see yuh like this? Wide open,” stroke, “humming for it,” squeeeeeze, “and knowing yuh’ll be jacking yuhself off the second I’m hauled off in chains.” 

A groan fought out of Megatron’s vocalizer, and his thighs shook as a thumb played with the tip of his spike. He was fully erect, hard and disgracefully eager. His systems were audibly humming, and he was entirely too aware of it now that it’d been pointed out to him. He could repress the betraying whirr of his fans, but his whole body gave him away.

“Every mech out there’ll know yuh like it like this. One yuhr back, waitin’ to be used. **Askin’** to be used, ‘cause yuh want it, yuh want it bad.” 

Megatron bit the inside of his lip and arched, optics shutting off to hide how conflicted he felt as Sarge leaned down to drag a wet, hot tongue up his length. The soft flick of pressure on the tip teased him with his vulnerability. He was splayed on the desk, open to whatever pleasure or pain was to be inflicted on him, and he couldn’t even pretend that wasn’t half the turn-on. He wanted to be toyed with like this.

A cruel chuckle rewarded the clamp of his thighs around armored hips. Megatron was giving in, and Sarge knew it. “Hard in half a klik. A service mech through and through. Ready to please, aintcha?”

“Stop,” Megatron said. It was a pathetic protest. His hands clenched on the edge of the desk, fingers opening and closing as he fought his desires. He should push the tormenting rush of air exhaled on his spike away, fight free of the hand on his neck, and destroy this fool himself.

“Stop?” Sarge let go of his neck, taunting him with a knowing look when Megatron didn’t immediately lash out. He took a step back that only succeeded in pulling the tyrant’s hips off the desk, because Megatron wasn’t letting him go. Oh yeah, he wanted this. “I can stop. Or I can,” he sank to his knees between silver thighs, grinning demonically wide, “keep going.”

Fans whirred. Heat began to billow from wide-open fan vents. Megatron stared down at the scarred lips hovering over his spike. His vulnerable, erect, ready spike that throbbed in rhythmic waves that he had no control over at all. There were no cables to flex and work, no calipers to use to massage until his lover was driven mad. No, he was the one who’d come in a shamefully short time if the mech blowing on the tip was as good at swallowing as he was at talking. 

But his pride was effectively dead already from Sarge getting him out like this in the first place. He couldn’t be ground any lower, be any more humiliated, have any more control taken away from him. The enemy sucking him off was just one more submission.

“Leave,” he grated out.

“Leave?” Sarge gave him an innocent look that brushed his helm over the spike in his face. Megatron made a sound deep in his throat. “Right now?”

His fists creaked as he tightened them on the edge of the desk, a symbol of his power now turned into a shameful monument to his ravishing. He’d never be able to sit here without remembering the aching need someone else made him stiff with. “Finish what you came here to do,” he ordered, hating himself, “and then leave. Never come back, or I’ll kill you.”

Sarge met his optics and nodded solemnly, and they both knew the Autobot would keep his word. He was a brutal killer, but he had his own code of honor. This wasn’t the first time he’d had an enemy helpless and begging for him. Megatron would never see him again, and what happened in this office would be kept between them.

A strong hand tossed one of Megatron’s legs over a broad shoulder, and Sarge bent his head. The Decepticon gasped, hips thrusting forward to meet him, and the sweet, forbidden taste of surrender had him moaning as much as the clever mouth settling over his spike.

“Gnnk.” 

The grunt sounded unnaturally loud in the empty office, as did the soft, wet splatter from overload. Megatron’s fuelpump hammered in his own audios. Breathing slow and deep, he brought his fans under control and throttled them down. He’d cool off soon enough. 

He grimaced at the evidence of his overload, opening his desk drawers with his clean hand in a search for something to get rid of the mess. He didn’t want anything left for the Autobot to see when he arrived.

For some reason, Megatron didn’t think the meeting with Hound was going to go anything like --

\-- like nothing, because Megatron had never planned to meet Sarge. Or the mech who’d played Sarge. An actor was nothing like the character, which he knew full well. He’d had absolutely no fantasies or imagined a single scenario for how it could have gone. Hound was probably a plain, boring, everyday Autobot who’d be scared out of his helm at being called into the office of the ruler of Cybertron. Nothing would happen, nothing at all.

Megatron wasn’t looking forward to it at all.

 

**[* * * * *]**

_[ **A/N:** And that’s a wrap. End.]_


	4. Pt. 4: You Wouldn’t Like Me When I’m Angry

**Title:** Call of Duty  
 **Warning:** Porn and pornstars. Power imbalance? Fantasies and libidos spinning out of control.  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Soundwave, Megatron, Onslaught, Jazz, Hound  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Tumblr prompt for a fic extension: “Hound’s reaction to the events of ‘Call of Duty.’”

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Four: You Wouldn’t Like Me When I’m Angry**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

He brought flowers. Of all the ways Soundwave had imagined their first meeting, Hound showing up with flowers in hand hadn’t been anywhere in the picture. The Autobot nervously clutched a large bouquet of foil-flower hybrids as if it would protect him. It was extremely hard to look at the relatively small, profoundly gentle gardener standing in the waiting room and think, “This is Sarge.” 

This was a defeated Autobot. This was a former enemy, a scout notorious for his skilled use of a hologram projector, and now this was a businessmech with an interest in alien botany. He looked every bolt a powerless everyday nobody summoned into the presence of his lord and master, ruler of the planet, Supreme Decepticon Commander Megatron. A more complete opposite to Sarge couldn’t be _made_. It was as though Hound had gone out of his way to be everything Sarge wasn’t.

Soundwave told his fans that they had no business accelerating. That was the furthest thing from Sarge he’d ever seen.

They declined to listen to his orders, choosing instead to remember Jazz’s odd reaction. The ex-saboteur had hesitated over decrying Hound as nothing like Sarge, and Soundwave paused the memory to obsessively study the strange look on his face. There was something there, although Soundwave couldn’t see it at the moment. Hound was more than he appeared on the surface, or Jazz wouldn’t have stumbled. 

Heat built low in Soundwave’s chassis. His interfacing equipment had been primed for too long anticipating this meeting. He swore they were overriding his logic circuits at this point. He shut his vents to muffle their betraying whirr before opening the outer doors.

Hound peered hesitantly into the reception room. Soundwave swallowed, covering the motion in a gracious nod. “Enter.”

“I, well, hi. I mean, hello sir.” Hound slid his foot into the room as though he expected the door to slam shut before he was all the way inside. “I was told Lord Megatron wanted to see me?”

More like demanded to see him. Soundwave sincerely wished Megatron had allowed him the time to contact Jazz. Arrest him, if that’s what it took to drag answers out of the wily Autobot. He’d been evading Soundwave’s calls, dodging them using a rash of plausible excuses common to popular musicians, but the excuses didn’t ring true. Jazz playing busy seemed more like running scared. It didn’t fill Soundwave with a great deal of confidence as to how this meeting was going to go. Ratchet’s threats were fresh in his mind. 

So was the last video Ironhide had uploaded for him to broadcast. The first airing of _’Sky High’_ was going to get Thundercracker’s dating service off the ground by lust alone, and Thundercracker had probably blown his entire start-up budget on the advertisements that ran before and after the showing. Smart business sense, that was. People were going to be all for signing up after rewatching the old classic of grounder and flightframe making out hot and heavy up in the stratosphere. 

Right, precautions. Soundwave made a mental note to reassign Laserbeak to watching the entertainment district for couples. Thundercracker was a die-hard romantic, and his dating site reflected that. Blind dates were about to become a thing again, and who knew what would happen if two mechs too into being coyly mysterious didn’t reveal their factions while chatting over the dating service site. Meeting in person could end in a fight. 

Or public indecency, depending on if cross-factional romance was as volatile as land-to-air lust tended to be. Primus, he really shouldn’t have watched that porn vid before this meeting. Heat flushed throughout Soundwave’s frame as Hound ventured close enough the earthy, dirty smell of soil, minerals, and rubber reached him. Hound had cleaned up, but his tires obviously tracked through mud every day. With Sarge leering in Soundwave’s mind, half a dozen filthy innuendos from the lousy porn dialogue ran through his mind as he drew in the dense scent of _groundframe_. It used to be the crackling ozone scent of hovercraft, but rubber tires and alien dirt made it strangely exotic on top of erotic.

His fans thrummed on their hubs. Soundwave swallowed again and hid the low _vvvvvum_ of fans behind closed vents by briskly stepping around the receptionist desk as if he needed to check the schedule. He didn’t. He knew exactly what time it was and what time the meeting was scheduled for. “Autobot Hound: arrived early,” he said in a cool monotone. “Megatron will be notified of your arrival. Seats: available. Sit. You will be called.” He pointed at the row of chairs along the wall. Megatron often made petitioners wait in order to emphasize who had the power in these rooms. 

His spike throbbed behind its hatch, eager to pressurize, and Soundwave hurriedly sat at the desk to hide palming the lock shut manually. Checking in visitors wasn’t normally his job, but he hadn’t been able to resist the chance to see Sarge. Hound. _Hound_ , not Sarge, and frag his libido. Nothing was going to happen! It could cool off, because insistent as parts of him were, Soundwave had self-control. 

Besides, Hound wasn’t reacting how Sarge would to Soundwave’s tiny, almost undetectable tell-tale fidgets. Sarge would have swaggered up to the desk and leaned on it, 100% confident about just whom would be laid flat on it soon after. Fully justified confidence, as the smallest _hint_ Sarge was under the meek Autobot exterior somewhere would have had Soundwave throwing himself down. A roguish gleam in Hound’s optics would have been enough to melt him to putty, and Soundwave wanted very badly to find that hint. Pretending to concentrate on the console screen was a transparent cover for how he watched the mech.

Hound, being Hound and not a living fantasy, simply stood on the other side of the desk and smiled too wide from nerves. “Oh. I, uh, didn’t want to be late. Rather be early than late, right? Er, sorry. I’ll wait, no problem.” The bouquet thrust out like an offering. “I brought a gift. Is -- is that acceptable? Optimus likes -- I mean, I send them to Optimus. I didn’t know if Lord Megatron wanted an example of my,” he faltered, just barely, “current occupation.”

Soundwave’s hands froze above the keyboard. That pause did not bode well. A chill ran down his backstruts, extinguishing the hot burn in his interface equipment. Unease rushed in to fill the cold void lust had eaten into his composure. Ratchet was going to murder him and repurpose his body. Before that, Soundwave was going to hunt down Jazz and demand to know if this had all been a massive set-up to execute him via enraged, protective Autobot medic.

Hound looked down into the bouquet, his smile dropping away into a crooked bit of good humor around his mouth. “I saw that meeting request from Media & Entertainment. Haven’t been replying. I thought you’d tip your hand putting pressure on me one way or another soon enough.” 

His fingers curled, but Soundwave didn’t otherwise react. It’d been as nonthreatening a request as M&E had ever sent out, personally vetted by him for anything that might demand a reply. The hope had been that Hound would be flattered by the invitation, maybe even interested in the profitable aspects of putting the Sarge porn series on Pay-Per-View. They were all businessmechs, old hands at the entertainment industry. Hound didn’t even have to be involved to make a tidy sum off M&E showing his vids. 

Soundwave had been careful, writing that message. He hadn’t _wanted_ Hound to feel pressured, especially since Jazz’s had promised to speak with the mech first. Well, that obviously hadn’t worked. When a Decepticon-run government division sent an Autobot a message, it was probably inevitable that the Autobot felt somewhat threatened. Power dynamics between conquerors and conquered were a tricky field to navigate.

“This was a surprise, though,” Hound said, glancing around the reception room. “Kind of heavy-handed for you, getting Megatron, er, Lord Megatron to summon me. It’s okay, I understand!” he rushed to assure Soundwave, although the communication specialist had only let slip a blurt of protesting static. “I get it. I kind of knew he was a, um.” His vocalizer reset, and he studied the flowers intently. “Bit of a fan, you might say. Guess you didn’t have to do more than tell him who I used to be before he had you call me in. Didn’t expect to come out of retirement for a command performance, but…”

“Meeting!” Soundwave said, trying not to let distress bleed into his voice. “Lord Megatron: curious! Nothing will be asked of Autobot Hound beyond questions of background and occupation. Improper to pressure for anything else. Lord Megatron is not interested in,” his vocalizer whined feedback, stressed, “blackmail.”

Hound looked at him. Instructors answering common sense questions had that same patient, tired expression. “Soundwave…it’s nice of you not to jump me the klik I walked into the room, but you have Ravage as a Cassette. You think I can’t tell why I’m here?”

Ravage? What did --

Oh.

It really didn’t matter how he muffled his fans or discreetly adjusted his panel underneath the desk. Soundwave’s files linked the scout and that annoying, irritating hologram projector. Hound’s primary threat level was based off of it, as it was the most important characteristic Decepticons needed to know when fighting the Autobot. However, further down the file was something else Soundwave should have paid more attention to in the context of today’s meeting: Hound had the enhanced chemical receptors of a technimal. 

A small, normally unimportant detail, unless one was attempting to conceal how turned on one was.

Soundwave stared at Hound, utterly taken aback. He had _not_ been prepared for this scenario. Being tossed down and ridden through the desk, yes. Being exposed as a randy spikemech ready to beg for valve?

The levels under Darkmount and Polyhex had been stabilized by the Constructicons themselves. Praying that the supports would give way and bury him in the depths wasn’t going to help any, and yet here Soundwave was desperately appealing to Primus for Cybertron to open up under him.

The whole complex probably reeked of desire. Soundwave didn’t need a nose to smell the lust seeping out from the door at the far end of the reception room. He didn’t even want to think about what he smelled of. Flustered, he stood up so fast he stumbled back, frantic to open space between them. The desk seemed an entirely inadequate barrier suddenly. 

His monotone squeaked oddly as contrition and embarrassment tightened his vocalizer. “Soundwave: apologizes for wrongful impression. Fan of Autobot Hound’s former identity in prewar occupation.” His pride cringed at admitting that out loud, but it wasn’t as though Hound couldn’t smell it on him. “Undeniably attracted to stage persona. Differentiation between character and actor: established fact. Lord Megatron, Soundwave, understand difference. No pressure meant for Autobot Hound to assume character of Sarge. Apologies offered for miscommunication.” 

He drew himself up, easing his shoulders back and pushing the sudden surge of emotion down. Formality became a refuge. “If threatened, Autobot Hound is invited to depart. No negative consequences will result. Explanation will be made to Lord Megatron. Meeting can be rescheduled to a neutral location, in front of witnesses to ensure safety and comfort.” A neutral location with great ventilation. That was definitely a requirement. They’d need plenty of moving air to sweep away any incriminating scents. 

“Optimus Prime: acceptable witness? Aware of former occupation of Autobot Hound?” He leaned forward, hands poised attentively over the keyboard. “Date and time available for reschedule?”

Hound regarded him, surprise melting in a thoughtful expression. After a minute of staring, Soundwave shifted uncomfortably. This position was undignified. It looked like he was afraid to sit down again, which he wasn’t, and it put his visor on level with Hound’s front grill, which looked far too grab-able. Add to that the fact that looking _up_ at the Autobot brought a surge of renewed interest from his interface equipment, and Soundwave wished Primus would hurry up and answer his prayers. What he wouldn’t give to disappear right now.

His fans spun, blowing the scent of terribly conflicted lust out of him despite his closed vents, but at least it snapped Hound out of his thoughts. The Autobot shook his head and blinked rapidly. He also shifted his flower bouquet up in front of his chest, freeing Soundwave to yank his visor down to study his hands instead of that tempting grill he wanted to put them on.

“Optimus? Huh. You know, he doesn’t know? At least, I don’t think so. He never say anything, anyway, but he probably wouldn’t’ve if he thought it bothered me.” Hound shrugged, one optic squinching up as he thought it over. The nervousness had bled out of him during Soundwave’s apology, and he only seemed vaguely anxious, now. “It doesn’t, y’know. If people don’t know, it’s not because I hid it. I was never ashamed of doing what I did, but Sarge was…heh. He was something of a joke, but a bad one.” 

Startled by the confession, Soundwave jerked his head up. Hound smiled a startling sad smile down at him. “You remember hitting us in Iacon? That first bombing? Half the filming crew didn’t make it out of the studio alive. There I was getting hauled out of the building, and people looked at me like I’d take charge. **Me.** I was an **actor**. I didn’t know what the frag was going on or what I was supposed to do, but nobody took that for an answer! They kept pushing and clinging and asking me questions I didn’t have answers to, and the only one who took me seriously was the medic. That Autobot medic.” His voice fell. “I can’t even remember his name anymore.” Hound shook it off, optics returning to Soundwave. “He hooked me up with a doc who knew a doc, and they made me look different enough that people stopped seeing Sarge when they looked at me. It’s like -- Hoist got medical training when everybody kept mistaking him for a medic. It was his thing. It’s what he was famous for, and he stepped up.” Hound made a helpless little gesture before clutching the flowers close. “He could do that, but I couldn’t. I can’t. I wasn’t Sarge, and I’m not Sarge. I was an actor signing up for a war I didn’t want to fight. The last thing I wanted was people looking at me to save them while I was learning which end of a gun to hold.”

“And honestly, I just didn’t think anyone would want me around if they found out who I used to play.” The Autobot shook his head. “I kind of can’t believe anybody wants to see those old vids after going through a war. I figured Mega -- Lord Megatron wanted to beat the bolts off me for playing a caricature that bad.” He looked into the bouquet, unable to lift his optics. “I’m not ashamed of the job, but I’m ashamed of who I played during it. I don’t think I could face anyone who knew how much I used to glorify war.”

Soundwave stared. His libido fell flat a second time from the shock. Did this Autobot have any idea what he was saying? He’d played a hero to soldiers. An overdone parody, yes, but a role model. Sarge had been everything soldiers aspired to be. The noncoms had based half their unofficial look and behavior creed off of him, to the point that any rookie transferred in could recognize his new unit’s sergeant by the similarities. The ranking soldier in a group of grunts could be found by looking for the one with scuffs on the inside of his thighs, walking slightly bow-legged and squinting through a cracked optic. The Decepticons had _idolized_ Sarge.

True, the Sarge films had glorified combat, but like the Decepticon Cause, they’d cast war in a light that…ahhh, wait. Wait, no, Soundwave understood what the problem was.

Hound was an Autobot. 

Of course an Autobot would be ashamed to be associated with all that. A Decepticon would be proud. 

Hound drew in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. His hands rearranged their grip on the bouquet, pulling it down and puffing out his chest. “Well. Cat’s out of the bag, as they say on Earth.” He forced a friendly grin. It quirked up on one side into a smirk familiar enough to pressurize Soundwave’s spike into a dull _thud_ against his hatch. “Rescheduling would inconvenience everyone, and I’m here already. Might as well meet my biggest fan!”

Soundwave had no idea what to say to that. His visor fixated on the bumper brazenly pushed toward him, and that smirk _did_ things to him. 

Whatever else Hound had become in the course of the war, he was still a consummate actor.

He must have stammered out something coherent, but Soundwave didn’t recall what. Hound sauntered over to the far wall, claiming a chair as if it’d been made for him. Luckily, the chair didn’t combust. Draped over it like Hound was, elbows on the back and bouquet casually twirling in one hand, there was a distinct danger of Soundwave going up in smoke. Between desk and chair, the persona of _Sarge_ had settled on Hound. The mech looked the same. The change was entirely attitude.

One optic squinted, the subtle hint of a cracked optic that wasn’t there. His smirk that pulled to the left where a scar should be but wasn’t, and the way he sat compromised between insubordination and utter authority. Knees spread wide, inviting -- frag, _demanding_ \-- attention to the broad black metal hatch concealing a valve Soundwave could imagine in embarrassing detail. He looked -- 

He looked like Hound, acted like Sarge, and the desk chair made too much noise as Soundwave fumbled to sit back down while staring. Hound stared right back at him, refusing to release him from that knowing gaze. It held mercilessness that would do a Sharkicon proud. It was abundantly clear Hound knew exactly what his act was doing to the communication specialist. Soundwave should have been humiliated, toyed with like this, but he couldn’t clear the overheat warnings from his HUD long enough to think clearly. Crammed in behind his hatch, his spike ached. Need and sharp pain pounded through his interface equipment in time with the pump of hydraulics struggling to pressurize equipment under lockdown. 

Updating Megatron on the situation had to be done via text message. Soundwave didn’t trust his vocalizer, and if he gave this mech a few words to work off of, Hound would own him. Sound was Soundwave’s arena. He ruled supreme in communication. Sarge, however, could take anyone’s strength and turn it into a weakness, and although Hound wasn’t really Sarge, he was apparently ruthless enough to use the character to take control of the situation.

Okay, the truth was that Soundwave didn’t dare give Hound an excuse to reply to anything he said. Sarge had a Rust Sea drawl thick enough to spread, just like his thighs. Sound was Soundwave’s strength, but hearing that accent would be his weakness.

Megatron didn’t like the update. His response all but blistered Soundwave’s console screen, but what could they do? Dismiss Hound now, and it’d be crystal clear two of the most powerful Decepticons in the Empire couldn’t face a humble Autobot gardener. They’d seem scared. 

They weren’t scared. Hound didn’t intimidate them. Titillate them, yes, six times yes, but not intimidate them.

Much.

Certainly not any more than fighting Optimus Prime one-on-one, or getting into a yelling match with Starscream when the Air Commander was in the right. Soundwave could almost hear Megatron repeating that to himself. Soundwave was shoring up his own courage through similar means. Hound had found a weak spot; alright, fine. Nothing they could do about that but save what dignity they had left. Megatron couldn’t stop the way he smelled, but anger could cover many flaws. All he had to do was stay angry, conduct a short interview just long enough to prove Hound didn’t have the upper hand, and then dismiss the Autobot before anything called their bluff. 

In the meantime, Soundwave would somehow ventilate this room, even if he had to carry in fans to do it. He’d call in the reception room’s usual secretary so he could leave, but Hound would probably assume Soundwave had retreated if he wasn’t here to see the mech out. Which was the truth. Frag.

Megatron signaled. He was as ready as he’d ever be. 

Without looking up, Soundwave gestured for Hound to go in. He was afraid to see what the silky _shiiiing_ of metal that had been coming from the Autobot’s direction meant. His imagination supplied several ideas. Most of them involved fingers tracing an open hatch, and Primus smelt him for spare parts..!

Movement at the corner of his visual feed had him glancing up before he could stop himself. Hound caught his gaze and tipped him a nod. “Thank yuh, sur,” he drawled, and Soundwave jumped in his seat as his spike hatch unlocked. The sound was small, but there wasn’t anything to cover it but Hound’s footsteps. The Autobot merely snickered as he strode through the open doors into Megatron’s office.

Humiliation flooded Soundwave in a hot flash, saturating him down to the struts in complete self-conscious embarrassment as his spike shot out, quivering from the sudden, long-delayed release to full pressure. Relief throbbed a pleasure on its own even before Soundwave gave up and wrapped a hand around himself. That sent a wavering hiss of white noise through the empty room. His vocalizer wouldn’t stay mute. He palmed his spike, fingers the lightest touch on the underside, and the surging pleasure curled him over the desk, mask pushed into the keyboard. 

_Weak_. An Autobot had him by the spike, and Soundwave didn’t have the strength to stop himself from moaning silent bliss at the tease. 

How? How had trying not to offend Hound turned to jacking off the klik the door closed behind him? He had to know what Soundwave was doing out here, and shame clenched in Soundwave’s spark as tight as his fingers around his spike. Pleasure knotted taut, pulling in time with the rhythm of his hand. He panted into the desktop, and he couldn’t stop. He wanted to stop, he _should_ stop, but in his mind Hound had stopped at the door.

He’d stopped and turned on a heel to stride back toward the desk, coming around it as Soundwave rose in alarm, spike out and visor wide, trying and failing to cover himself. Backhanding the larger Decepticon, Hound followed it up with a shove to Soundwave’s chestplates, sending the console screen tumbling off the desk as he pushed the mech down. He was smaller but quicker, more limber than Soundwave’s blocky build allowed for, and the rubber of his tires gave him traction on the shining floors that Soundwave couldn’t get no matter how he flailed. 

They’d fought before, he and Hound. He had size and strength on his side, but not when Hound seized him by the spike, grip just harsh enough to turn Soundwave’s joints to liquid metal. Soundwave fell back, vents gasping. Involuntary surrender brought his hands up and open. Hound smiled, that out-of-place gentle expression, but the gentleness only extended to his face. His hands were hard. One stayed around the base of Soundwave’s poor spike, massaging it expertly until the communication specialist squirmed, hips thrusting. The other pushed open hands down to the desk on either side of Soundwave’s helm.

“Stay,” Hound commanded, the vowels rounded with an accent that sent Soundwave’s fans roaring.

He nodded, lust eating the shame. He should care but he didn’t, and his visor brightened as Hound climbed up onto the desk, straddling him. The panel between thick thighs gaped open. Soundwave whimpered, straining up toward it, but the back of his hands stayed glued to the desk. Slick warmth circled the tip of his spike. Hound looked down at him, hips rolling torment, and Soundwave’s throat vibrated from the static filling it. He looked up, looked _up_ as the valve that had starred in a hundred porn vids slid down his length in one slow glide all the way to the hilt.

Soundwave ached back, overloading so hard something in his neck cracked, and the broken sound he made echoed in the corners. Hot liquid spilled over his pumping fist, spurt after spurt emptying released charge out his spike as though it had a direct conduit to his spark. Every pulse shook his legs, kicked out straight in front of him to knock against the desk. Black spots spangled across his vision. 

After almost too long, his spark calmed, but it glowed warm, the occasional afterimage of pleasure skirling through him. His spike, oversensitive, sent shivers through his internal systems as he peeled his fingers away. Panting breaths gradually lengthened back into normal venting, in and out. 

His breath caught when he finally blinked out of the daydream haze to realize what he’d done. Or rather, what he had to deal with in the short amount of time he had before the meeting ended.

The desk was a mess. Soundwave’s thighs and pelvic span were no better. The evidence of his weakness, his lack of control, his _indecency_ spattered in cooling puddles on the console, the floor, and his armor. Wiping it up wouldn’t take the smell from between the keys of the console, or hiding in his hip joints. Even to his comparatively stunted chemoreceptors, the room stank of fragging.

Soundwave put his sticky hand over his visor and prayed the meeting went long.

 

**[* * * * *]**

_[ **A/N:** I didn’t mean to write this. It kind of undercut my original plan, but oh well. Until the curtain rises next time, m’dears.]_


End file.
